


The Trail Home

by CapGirlCanuck



Category: Captain America (Movies), Horses - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, And way more fluff than I anticipated, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Abuse, Auctions, Blood and Injury, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Livestock, Recovery, Romance, Trauma Recovery, Welcome to Idaho!, and the ranch AU, bonus Staron, cowboy!Steve, horse!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 76,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: They called the horse a killer.They told Steve he was crazy to think he could tame him.But there was something in his eyes, something that drew Steve to this deeply wounded animal. And maybe the horse he calls 'Winter' isn't the only one who needs to heal.Inspired byGriselda Banks's "Make Me Whole".
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 141
Kudos: 33





	1. Still Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SergeantToMyCaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantToMyCaptain/gifts).



> Basically what it says on the tin. This is the one where Bucky is a horse, and Steve takes the risks to save him, even though he doesn't know it's him. Heavily inspired by [Griselda Banks's "Make Me Whole"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11397987/chapters/25527291). So this is almost a fanfic of a fanfic. :P (Grizz, I promise to keep my feet off the dash.)
> 
> To Ari: Suddenly I have to write some kind of dedication and I am at a loss for words. I love you so much, and I thank God daily for your friendship. I hope I can give you and this story what you deserve. All my love and Merry Christmas!

Horse hooves flashed through dark, silver-edged grass, spraying dewdrops in the moonlight. Steve hung low over Valkyrie’s neck, hands buried in her long white mane. He was glad he’d worn gloves; the mornings were getting cold as fall settled over the Rocky Mountain foothills.

He rocked easily with the motion of her gallop, his jean-clad legs firm around her warm barrel. The air on his face felt cold and clear enough to drink, and he opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue in a breathy slurp. Then he was laughing, calling into the alert ear that twitched back toward him: “‘Drinkers of the Wind’, hey, Valkyrie? Sure wish I could too.”

Horse and boy stretched lower as they climbed the steep side of the hill, the mare’s shoulder muscles stretching and bunching against Steve’s knees with each stride. With a final burst they topped the ridge, and Steve sat back, breathing almost as hard as his horse. They dropped to a steady jog, until Steve reined Val across to the worn path, and let her slow to a walk.

Steve sat straight and relaxed, letting the reins go loose, and the grey mare blew out a loud snort, breath clouding in the moonlight, shaking her head, and making her halter jingle. He hadn’t bothered with a bridle, just snapped a pair of rope reins on.

He dropped his left hand to rub over her withers, digging his fingers into the thickening hair to give her the scratching she loved. Valkyrie stretched her neck as she ambled on, angling her head to the side, and he heard the soft popping of her lips. “That feels good, hey, girl?” he murmured.

He pulled his glove off and bent over, sliding his hand down her neck to her chest. Damp; he should keep her walking.

Young Steven Rogers loosened the stampede string under his chin, and lifted off his cowboy hat, resting it on his thigh. The moonlight glinted in his blond hair as he turned his head to stare out across the Double-R land. His land.

Well, not technically his until he was 21. One more year still to go, before it was his in deed. But his in word and work; in blood, sweat, and tears; in dirt beneath his fingernails, and nights spent with Uncle George hunched over the computer, trying to make the numbers come right. They never quite did.

Steve tipped his head back, ‘til he could see nothing but stars; a million massive balls of fire strewn across a universe so vast it made them small. But his heart looked beyond the stars.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “I’m trying, Dad. I’m trying… Mom.” The pain was keen, and he dropped his head, silent, swaying with Val’s easy movement, while the fingers of his right hand twisted around the black horsehair bracelet on his opposite wrist, turning it unconsciously. 

Dawn was a couple hours off, but the moon was full enough that he could pick out the shapes of the flatter, smaller paddocks, giving way to the rolling pastures that fanned back toward him from the cluster of buildings set down towards the road.

The glow of the light in the farmyard was a burning star set in the dark shadows.

“We’re gonna be okay, Val,” Steve said aloud. “We have to be.”

His mom had said that, lying in that hospital bed, the day before she died. “You’ll be okay, son.”

“How?” he’d whispered, the rest of the words stuck in his throat. _How can I be okay without you?_

She hadn’t had the strength to lift her hand, but somehow, he knew what she wanted. He’d kissed her dry palm and held it against his cheek. “Because you’re not alone,” she’d said. One of the last things he’d heard her say.

 _“Goodnight, son,”_ and _“I love you, too,”_ were the last.

Still gripping the brim of his hat in one hand, Steve dropped his reins, and bent forward to wrap his arms around Valkyrie’s neck. He held on until the tightness in his chest eased away.

Steve sat up when the trail began to slope downhill again, and sucked in a deep breath. Jammed his hat back on his head, squared his shoulders, gathered his reins.

Sky was beginning to lighten in the east; dawn would come soon enough. His eyes caught the flash of headlights on the road, a truck swinging into the RR driveway; that would be Nick. Valkyrie suddenly stopped, pricking her ears, and staring the other way down the road to the west. Steve spotted two figures on horseback, still a way off, but moving at a good clip. Sam and Sharon.

Steve clicked his tongue, nudging his horse into an easy jog. “Let’s go, girl. Nick’ll have the coffee made, and those two will have it drunk up, by the time we get back.”

They left the ridge as light began to touch the sky, following the trail home.

**

In the shadowy farmyard Sam and Sharon were already swinging down from their horses, and calling greetings to Nick, the ranch foreman, who stood in the lighted office doorway, sipping his coffee.

Tessa, whom Steve affectionately called ‘pup’ even though she was a middle-aged dog, came running to meet her master, as he and Val came around the corner of the covered riding ring. As Steve slid off Val’s back, he dropped right down to one knee, and Tess thrust herself into his arms, doing her happy squeaking, body wagging all over.

“Hey, you,” Steve whispered, kissing the soft silky spot behind one ear. It was the same way she had greeted him since the person at the animal shelter opened the door of her kennel the first time—all dark chestnut fur and warm love.

Horses snorted and hooves crunched on gravel, as Steve saw the light come on in the ranch house kitchen; someone else was up, probably his aunt.

“Good morning,” Sharon Carter, Steve’s neighbour and girlfriend called, taking her mare Peggy by one rein and walking her across to Steve.

“Morning to you too,” Steve answered, putting his arm around her shoulders, and bending to give her a quick kiss. “Mmm,” he murmured against her cheek. “You smell nice this morning.”

“Nothing but fresh air,” she said, pulling back and tapping him on the nose.

“No wonder you always smell perfect,” Steve grinned. Sure, she was blonde and beautiful, but it was Sharon’s kind heart and willing strength in the worst months after his mother died, that had really won Steve’s heart. Plus, the Carters had a cattle ranch on the west side of the RR, and Sharon was a great cowgirl in her own right.

“Let’s turn these guys out, and then we can load up and hit the road. Coming, Sam?” he added. Sam’s only response was a yawn, as he and Falcon wandered over to join them.

Steve grinned at his friend. “Little early for you, city slicker?”

“Shuddup,” Sam mumbled.

Sam Wilson had grown up in Boise, but since moving to Fernwood almost three years ago, he’d proven to be a natural with horses. He was the first guy Steve had ever called his best friend, and he and Steve had trained Falcon together.

The three of them had been tight friends almost from Sam’s first day at the high school, in part thanks to one of the other kids being an idiot about the fact that Sam’s family was dark-skinned. But more than that, Steve had sensed a quiet understanding from the normally talkative boy, and theirs was a friendship built out of a swirl of autumn leaves and parking lot grit, hot tears on cold cheeks, and a hard handclasp.

Now in the greying light of early morning, they turned their horses out, Sam and Sharon untacking and lugging their saddles back to the barn.

When he pulled Val’s halter off, inside the gate of the big paddock on the east side of the barn, Steve stopped to rub his hand against her forehead and she leaned into the scratching gratefully. “Don’t have all day, old girl,” Steve finally said, backing away, and he could have sworn he heard her sigh before she turned and trotted off to join the other two.

Sharon had stopped to wait for him, saddle propped on her hip, and he reached to take it from her. She let him, and then took his free hand as they walked back to the barn, Tess trotting at Sharon’s side.

“You okay?”

Steve heard the gentle concern in Sharon’s voice, and shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah.” A pause. “Just really need to sell those two for what I’m asking today. And not a penny less.”

“Did your buyers guarantee?”

“The guy who wants Dracon did. But if the other won’t take Penny, I’ll have to put her in the auction. And that will almost certainly pull in less.”

“Maybe. Could bring in more.”

Steve glanced over at her, smiled through the dark. “Yeah, maybe,” he said softly.

**

It was 4:30 in the morning, but Nick was starting morning chores, warbling soulfully along with the radio by the tack room door:

 _Seen my share of broken halos  
_ _Folded wings that used to fly…_

The eight horses currently in the barn cocked their heads—some nickering loudly, one banging on his stall door—keen on getting their breakfast sooner rather than later.

Steve bit back a smile as he ducked into the tack room to grab shipping wraps for Dracon and Penny, the two horses Steve was taking to the sale that day. Nick Fury’s off-key voice was a sound he’d grown up with, the echo of some of his oldest memories.

Nick was a well-built, dark-skinned, balding man, born and raised around horses, who had worked for the Rogers longer than Steve had been alive, and wore a patch over one eye. Steve didn’t know the story behind that bad eye, but he’d seen it once, and still occasionally wondered what could have caused that kind of damage.

Steve paused, glancing up at a photograph on the wall: Nick, without the eye patch, leaning against a fence beside Joseph Rogers, a horse’s head sticking out from between them. Both men were laughing.

Yeah, it was good to hear Nick singing again.

Sam and Sharon each had a horse in the wash rack, giving them a quick grooming. Steve had loaded the trailer the previous night with hay and water, trying to keep things simple for today.

Dracon, a leggy grey Appendix Horse, stamped a front hoof and tossed his head, making Sam stumble back from where he had been leaning against the horse’s neck, letting his eyes close.

Steve grinned. “Seriously, dude. What time did you go to bed last night?”

Sharon caught the four neatly rolled bandages Steve threw at her, raised one eyebrow at her friend, and finished Steve’s thought. “I know you’re not exactly a morning person, but did you forget what time we were leaving?”

Sam shrugged, rubbed the body brush over the same spot on Dracon’s shoulder Steve had seen him brushing five minutes ago. “My brother’s home this weekend, and he brought CoD with him–”

“Cash on delivery?” Steve asked, putting on his best confused face.

Sam threw the brush at him, missing badly, and almost hitting Tess, who was sniffing around the drain. She sniffed at the brush, and gave Sam her ‘What the heck?’ look. “Call of Duty, you moron.”

Of course, Steve knew that. But he never really played video games, and liked to bug Sam by acting ignorant.

“And you both stayed up til midnight, trying to push your kill counts past a thousand.” Sharon ducked under Penny’s neck to the side closest to Dracon, and crouched to wrap the mare’s front leg.

“Something like that.” Sam yawned again.

“Well, you are definitely _not_ taking first shift behind the wheel,” Steve said over his shoulder, his hands busy around Dracon’s hind legs.

“Yeah, it would be nice to actually make it out to the road,” Sharon added. She caught Steve’s eye, and they both smiled.

Sam’s older brother was at school in Tennessee and didn’t come home all that often. A visit from Simon was not something to be taken lightly.

“Wait.” Steve cocked his head, sat back on his heels. “If Simon’s home, why are you here?”

Sam shrugged, bent to grab a mane comb from the grooming box set against the wall, and set to work on Dracon’s mane. Steve couldn’t see his face. “He’ll sleep ‘til lunch time, and then he was going four-wheeling with Rich in the afternoon. With you two speed demons driving, we’ll probably be back for supper, so I’ll see him then. All good.”

_Right._

“Well, that worked out then.” Sharon stood, patted Penny’s chestnut rump. “You should drag him out here for a ride tomorrow. Who do you wanna load first?” she added to Steve.

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “If she’s ready, go ahead. I think we’re almost done.” He checked his phone. “Should be outta here in ten.”

“Good enough for me,” Sam said, tossing his comb in the direction of the grooming box, and missing once more.

“She looks good.” Nick paused, on his way by with the wheelbarrow, to eye Penny as Sharon led her out and down the aisle. “Papers are in the office, Cap.”

‘Cap’ was short for Captain, a nickname he’d had for Steve’s father, his friend _and_ his boss. The first time he’d called Steve that, Steve had stared at him, unable to speak. Nick had shrugged, looked away. _“You’re the boss now.”_

Now, Steve nodded. “Kay, thanks.” He snapped Dracon’s lead on to his halter, as Sam unclipped the crossties. “Wait, did you get Penny’s Coggins? Doc Barton dropped it off last night.”

“So, all except for that paper.”

“Kay. Pretty sure I left it on the kitchen counter.”

Steve left Sam to load Dracon with Sharon, and jogged across the yard, veering around the truck and trailer, toward the house.

Aunt Winnie was in the kitchen, still in her bathrobe, putting freshly made sandwiches and snack containers from the fridge, into a cloth bag.

“Morning, hon. Everything going alright?”

Steve grabbed the papers off the counter by the phone, and crossed the room to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Yep.”

“Coffee’s ready.” She nodded in the direction of the pot, and Steve pulled three travel mugs from the cupboard to fill.

“Sam’ll be glad of this.”

Aunt Winnie chuckled, and they finished with their respective tasks in a comfortable silence.

There was a lot of Sarah in her sister: the way she tilted her head when she asked a question, the way she made the garden flourish; the colour of her hair and the set of her shoulders; the way she stood and the way she walked.

But she wasn’t Sarah, and she didn’t try to be. She made donuts instead of gingerbread, she grew geraniums alongside the roses, and she never told Steve what to do.

Steve gathered the handles of the three travel mugs in one hand, took the straps of Aunt Winnie’s feed sack in the other. She patted his cheek, and _that_ motion was bittersweet.

“Have a good day.”

“Thanks, Aunt Winnie.”

Outside, the ramp was up, the truck was idling, and Sam was stretched out in the back seat, trying to catch a few more winks. Tessa though, had other ideas, sprawling on top of him and burying her nose against his neck. Steve smiled and passed him his coffee, which elicited a grunt of thanks.

Steve had his foot on the brake, hand on the gearshift, when Nick appeared at the driver’s window.

“Papers?”

“You sound like the border guards,” Sharon said.

“Yep,” Steve nodded.

His one eye stared sharply at Steve. “Remember you trained ‘em. And you trained ‘em right. Anyone who can’t see that is a fool. You’ve trained them all right.”

Steve blinked in surprise at the direct praise, but Nick was already turning away. “Drive safe,” he called over his shoulder, as he shoved his cowboy hat further down on his head, and disappeared into the barn.

**

They’d been one hour on the road, with another three to go, and the sun had yet to show itself over the mountains. In the backseat Sam and Tess were munching on Aunt Winnie’s donuts and handmade dog biscuits, respectively, and Sharon was singing along with Scotty McCreery:

“ _Time rolls by, the clock don’t stop_  
 _I wish I had a few more drops  
_ _Of the good stuff, the good times…_ ”

One of Steve’s favourite songs.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Steve saw Sam’s face. He had stopped eating, and sat still, staring out the window. His face had gone carefully blank.

Steve returned his eyes to the road, knowing Sam would speak if he wanted to. And if he didn’t, it wouldn’t do to push him. Steve knew full well what it was like to get grabbed by a memory, bitter or sweet; to get caught up in a replay, either something you’d give anything to undo, or something you’d give anything to relive.

Another quick glance in the mirror, and Steve saw a muscle jumping in Sam’s jaw. His head went down, and Tess’s nose was up in his face. Steve reached over and turned the radio down.

Sharon glanced over at him, took a drink of her coffee, and smiled. “So, you planning on buying anything today?” she asked.

Steve shrugged. “Not really.” No, they didn’t need another horse right now, especially as they headed into winter. “But you know, if I see anything interesting.”

His gaze went back up to the rear-view mirror, and his eyes met Sam’s. Sam gave him a weak grin. A thought struck Steve. “Hey, Sam. Have you ever gotten to work a sale? Like, show a horse off for its prospective owner?”

Sam blinked, cleared his throat. “N-no. Seen you do it plenty.”

“Then you can work Penny.”

Sam frowned. “But she’s not guaranteed.”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “She needs someone to show her off. You’ve ridden her, helped me work her. You take care of that, and I’ll stand back like a cool, aloof owner and talk dollar signs instead.”

Sam still looked uncertain. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Sam’s grin was crooked, but stronger. “Hell, why not?”

Sharon twisted around to exchange a high-five with him. “Just remember, if they wanna stop to pee, let ‘em stop to pee.”

Now Sam groaned and Steve laughed. “Just not too close to the rail,” Steve said, grinning. Sharon snorted.

“Why? What happened?” Sam asked, glancing from him to Sharon and back.

“Oh, this one auction we were at.” Steve shook his head. “The kid let his horse stop right beside the rail, and this fancy kind of dude got his boots sprayed down.”

“He… wasn’t nearly as amused as everyone else,” Sharon added.

In the rear-view mirror Steve saw Sam glancing down at his feet—no doubt because he’d worn his good boots today—and could not hold back his laughter.

He was surprised by how good it felt to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted:  
> "Broken Halos" by Chris Stapleton  
> "Five More Minutes" by Scotty McCreery


	2. Not As Planned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this has taken so long, but there should be a chapter every Saturday from here on out, unless I get ahead, and post some on Wednesdays too. So far I am expecting 8-10 chapters.  
> Life has been stressful, which hampers my creativity, but I'm making an effort to settle things down, and am very glad to be back!  
> Sorry it's short, but they'll get longer, I promise.  
> All my love and thanks to the Foxhole Sisters. For everything.

The sale barn where they were meeting the potential buyers was just across the border in B.C., and kept plenty busy by American dealers trucking up horses to sell for meat, since that was illegal in the United States. But with that also came all the trainers and folks looking for something special, looking for a diamond in all the rough.

His dad’s favourite kind of auction.

Steve parked the truck, and sat for a moment, remembering how it felt to pull in to the bustle of people and animals and trailers, to stare out the window in excitement, and glance over at his dad… Somehow it took his breath away as he glanced over into Sharon’s brown eyes, so much like his mom’s: He was sitting where his dad had always sat before.

_“One man’s trash_

_Is another man’s gold...”_

Steve realized he was whispering the song out loud, and he managed a quick reassuring smile for Sharon before he swung down from the warm cab of his Ford F-350 into the crisp morning air, squinting a bit in the sunlight.

Dracon’s buyer was already waiting, and in a hurry, so they had the paperwork done and the cheque in Steve’s pocket fifteen minutes later. Steve handed over Dracon’s lead, they shook hands, and the rangy grey Appendix Quarter Horse headed off to a good life in Canada.

Penny, they took inside the sale barn, to stable her until her prospective owner showed up. She was excited, but not strung out, and when they had her settled Sam waved his two friends away.

“Dude, I got this,” he said. “You two go have a look around.”

Steve grinned. “Thanks.” He grabbed Sharon’s hand, and patted his thigh. “Heel, Tess.” She did so, looking up at him adoringly with those big brown eyes. Steve grinned, and bent to smooth his hand over the curve of her skull. “You’re the best,” he whispered.

He easily recalled the day he’d found her at the animal shelter, the way she dove into his arms, snuggling up against him like there was nowhere on earth she wanted to be more.

Sharon tugged at his hand, and he looked up. “Okay, okay. Let’s go. Why are you in a hurry?” he added. “Looking for a replacement for Pegasus or something?”

She punched him in the shoulder. “Not in a million years.”

As they started to walk away, Steve glanced back at Sam, patted his phone in his back pocket. “If anyone comes by, just text,” he called.

Sam flashed him a thumbs up.

The sale had already begun with the heavy horses; Steve could hear the rhythmic rise and fall of the auctioneer’s singsong coming from the ring. The barn was built for all livestock and the air was thick with not only the smells of its current occupants, but also past: cattle, sheep, goats, pigs. To Steve the aromas—horse, sweat, nerves, manure, dirt—were familiar, comforting.

And the sounds: Whinnies, nickers, snorts, the occasional squeal. Horses standing quietly flicking flies, and horses fussing, stamping their feet on the cement floors. People laughing, talking, shouting, complaining.

Sharon’s hand was warm in his, and he linked their fingers together, swinging their hands in rhythm with their steps. He realized he was whistling, until Sharon smiled at him and he had to grin back.

Part of the barn had box stalls, and he and Sharon wandered through them, only stopping once or twice. For the most part these were the good horses—good health, good training, good owners. Steve sold those; he didn’t buy them.

The other part was the loose livestock pens, and here Steve slowed, eyeing each animal he passed. Most were haltered and tied to the rail, their owners not having spent the money on a stall. And then there were the loose groups, hauled in by the truckers from both sides of the border. Steve could count at least three pens, with perhaps half-a-dozen in each. Generally, these were the ones who would be under the kill buyer’s eye, the ones near the end of the line.

A couple men stood by the farthest pen, voices raised in an argument, which Steve and Sharon tried to ignore. They stopped by the first pen, Sharon leaning her arms on the rail.

Five horses here. One horse nipped another, who kicked back, and they spent a couple minutes rearranging the group ‘til everyone settled again. A decent group, Steve thought; rough and dirty, but not overly thin. He was a ranch boy. He knew the reality of too many horses, and not enough money and not enough people to take decent care of them all. It was pointless neglect and senseless cruelty that got Steve’s blood up.

“See anything you like?” Sharon’s voice interrupted his train of thought.

Steve shook his head silently, following Sharon to the next group, and suddenly all he could think of was how his dad had never belittled his mom’s soft heart for the ones at the end of their rope. In fact, more than once Steve had heard his dad mutter what he called ‘Sarah’s prayer’: _“Lord, have mercy on the animals too.”_

But it had been too long since Steve last prayed.

A terrific _bang_ had Steve’s head jerking up; it was a sound he recognized as hooves striking wood. The _crash_ came again, and Steve saw a horse rear up suddenly in the last pen. The two men didn’t stop arguing, if anything they shouted louder.

“He’s not fit to live and you know it!”

Steve froze mid-step, glancing at Sharon to see if she’d heard those words too. She gazed back; eyebrows raised in wonder.

“What the heck?” she murmured.

Steve’s phone vibrated. He stiffened, still poised to walk over and see the horse that was making such a fuss, but his hand was already on his back pocket, and he sighed turning away. That would be Sam, of course.

But even as he swiped his phone open, he couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder, and catching a fleeting glimpse of long tangled black mane.

 **Time to sell a horse** was Sam’s message.

 **Coming** Steve shot back.

**

But the woman didn’t take Penny; she hardly looked at her.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve found another horse here that’s exactly—just exactly—what I want.”

Steve nodded like he understood, but he remembered that she’d said the same thing about Penny _(“…exactly—just exactly—what I want.”)_ when she tried her at the rodeo in Spokane last month.

Even Penny and Tess stood and watched the woman walk away.

The disappointment was heavy on Steve’s shoulders as he turned, prepared to head for the sale office, hoping it wasn’t too late to sign the mare in. He caught the look on Sam’s face, where his friend stood, holding Penny’s lead, one hand on her neck.

“You’re definitely the one taking her in the ring,” Steve told him. He forced a smile at Sam’s dubious look. “You’re better than I am.”

But he couldn’t enter Penny in the auction.

Sharon stared at him. “But they accept consignments up to an hour before. The light horses don’t start until 11.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s 10:07.”

Sharon blinked, then closed her eyes and groaned. “Why, God?” she muttered.

“So… what now?” Sam asked quietly.

Steve didn’t know how to answer. His mind was jumping from one possibility to another; they could stay for a couple hours, and hope to sell Penny to someone else; they could leave her at the auction barn for the sale tomorrow; they could just go home… Despair welled up in him, and he caught himself echoing Sharon’s prayer. _Why, God?_

He was trying so hard to make this work, to hang onto the ranch, and make his dad proud. To make it work the way things had back before… before everything. Before the cancer, before the heart problems, before Crossbones… before he lost Buck.

A cold nose nudged his palm and he blinked, glanced down at Tess, who stared back, unwavering. She pawed his leg, giving a little whine, and Steve sucked in a deep breath, then another.

He rested his hand on her head, trying to collect his scattered wits.

A tap on his shoulder roused him with a start.

“Excuse me, is your horse in the sale?” The weather-beaten cowboy jerked his head toward Penny, peering over the door of the stall.

“N-no,” Steve stuttered, caught off guard.

“Is she _for_ sale?” One eyebrow raised with a hint of amusement.

Steve pulled himself together, cleared his throat. “Yessir. She is.” He caught Sam’s eye, jerked his head. “Bring her out. Let him take a look.”

He felt a combination of relief and disappointment, as he took the cheque and shook the man’s hand. He’d sold the horse he needed to. But for $500 less than he wanted. He would have lost that much trucking her home and keeping her for another week anyway, but he couldn’t fight the sense of failure.

Sharon said nothing, just patted Penny’s rump as she was led away, then came to wrap her arms around Steve’s waist and rest her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her and gave Sam a half smile. “Thanks, man. You’re probably the reason we made that sale.”

Sam couldn’t quite hold back the grin that split his face, before he shrugged and looked away, bending to scratch Tess’s ears.

Sharon pressed her right palm against his chest, fingers splayed over the pocket of his shirt where the second cheque of the day rustled slightly. Steve shut his eyes, feeling his heart beat against her hand, before he reached across with his own right hand to cover hers.

The darkness was backing off, retreating again, and he took a breath, leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. The air seemed to settle around him.

“So, what do you wanna do?” Sharon tilted her head to watch his face. “Go look at some horses, or head home?”

“Come on, we’ve only been here two hours,” Sam interjected. “Let’s go see what else is here. Maybe we’ll find something good.” He rubbed his hands together, giving Steve the ‘evil genius’ eye.

Steve shrugged, and gave a half-hearted chuckle at Sam’s high spirits. “Okay, fine.”

As they wandered the same route Steve and Sharon had taken earlier in the morning, Steve found himself thinking of the horse that had been acting up, and the one he guessed to be the subject of those men’s argument. _“He’s not fit to live and you know it!”_

_“He’s not fit to live and you know it!”_

_“Not fit to live…”_

He was pulled back to his surroundings as he bumped shoulders with a rangy black stock horse, who looked like he’d come straight from the field, fall mud coat and all.

“Why don’t people groom their horses even a tiny bit before they bring them to a sale?” Sam glanced back, shaking his head.

“Takes all kinds,” Steve murmured.

Sam had to stop and scratch the ears of a scruffy pony, prompting Sharon to suggest he should take it home to surprise his mom.

“Just walk in the front door and say you brought your girlfriend over. And then this little girl comes in behind you…”

Sam was laughing, as the pony snuffled into his armpit. “Wait, what’s my girlfriend’s name?”

“Veronica,” Steve blurted out, and then even he was chuckling; Sam’s cheerfulness was infectious.

Someone yelled, and Steve glanced up, down to the end of the barn. Someone led a horse past, blocking his vision.

He froze at the next sound: a whinny so shrill it sounded like a scream. And then the _crash_ of hooves on wood.

His view cleared, and he was staring over to the pens where the loose herds were held. Horses milled uneasily. Another whinny, but lower, more worried. A squeal.

And then a horse reared up, front legs striking, and again that terrible squeal, before it dropped back down into the herd.

“What the hell’s going on there?” Sam asked, but Steve hardly heard him. A few people were hurrying toward the commotion, Steve involuntarily following.

Another _crash_ , and then Steve saw, almost in slow motion, a man vault over the fence, and the blur of a horse slamming into the boards behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted:  
> "Another Man's Gold" by Dean Brody


	3. They Call Him 'Killer'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, my brain was all over the place, still struggling with some version of writer's block. But here you go. Hope this is good enough!

He sprawled in the aisleway, splintered boards hanging from the fence behind him. A muddy dark bay, scrambling to get his feet under him, as people closed in.

Shouts, someone almost screaming, “Get back! You’ll be killed!”

A man in a green shirt reached for the horse’s head, just as the animal heaved itself up. There was a quick motion, forelock whipping back from dark eyes, teeth bared, and the man stumbled back. Steve watched him grip his forearm with his other hand, saw the red smear on his palm as he let go in surprise.

Steve whipped his gaze back to the horse, who was busy making space for himself. Someone crawling away on the other side of his rampage, people scattering.

One more person dove for the rope dangling from the halter, was immediately wrenched from her feet, ball cap flying, as she was flung against a fencepost. Steve was moving without thinking, running, as he saw the woman let go and fall, only to get nailed in the back with a flying hoof.

He heard the _thunk_ , her gasp, the air leaving her lungs.

 _“Hey!_ Hey, _get back!”_

He realized he was yelling, arms raised, as the horse backed away, and then he was in between them, the horse and the woman.

“Get back, I say!”

The head tossed, a hoof stuck ground, and Steve froze.

Thick muddy bay coat; black mane and tail; a gash down one knee, dripping blood through dirt; a chest marred with black hairless scars, some barely healed. Steve’s gaze traced three thick ropes of scar tissue snaking across the slightly dished face, before he stared into the black eyes.

Terror. Pure, screaming fear stared mutely back.

Nostrils flared, and Steve gasped a sudden breath.

He barely dodged the first strike.

Rolling to his feet, he spun, and teeth clacked on air. “Oh, yeah?” he blurted, ducking a hoof, running one way to avoid the horse’s spin the other way. “I played this game with… Diablo.” He saw the moment, braced himself. The head slamming into his shoulder made them both stagger. “Devil himself.”

He was panting. “Except- he didn’t mean it. I’m not- sure if you do- either. But- you’re doing- a heckuva- job.”

And now something smashed into the back of his knee and he went down. Pain. He rolled instinctively, thought he heard someone scream his name. Spitting dirt, scrambling to his feet, forcing his leg to comply.

The horse paused again, a little more distance between them now. They eyed each other, breathing hard.

A wet gleam of red from a spot on his left shoulder as he shifted his weight.

_Oh, Lord..._

Scars all over his body, hair grown back white, or not grown back at all, marks littering his hide, too many to count. Longer, ragged slashes down his barrel, as if he'd been sliced open by a dull knife. 

_Those eyes…_

Prey animals backed off, if you looked them in the eye; predators would bristle at the challenge. Steve didn’t know anymore _what_ he was facing here. Because the horse just stood and stared.

It wasn’t just his eyes; Steve saw that he was trembling, barely enough to notice, but it was a full-body shuddering. He was utterly terrified. And yet running didn’t seem to even occur to him.

“Whoa easy boy easy there now easy lad just stand there now and take it easy it’s okay now it’s all right I promise easy now I don’t want to hurt you boy easy whoa now just stand there and catch your breath huh easy easy easy…” Steve had caught his own breath enough and the sing-song stream of words came steady and soft.

He dropped his gaze to the horse’s nose, following the scar that trailed down between the delicate nostrils. His voice only paused for him to inhale.

The only sounds were his voice and the horse’s breathing. And somewhere underneath, the auctioneer’s own endless patter.

“Good boy now gentle now easy there’s a good boy you got some nice cuts there huh do you think you’d let me take a look at those or not I guess probably not but looks like you know a thing or two about healing on your own I bet you’re tougher than any horse I’ve ever met where’d you get all those scars anyway huh…”

Steve dared to glance up, to the ears pointed directly at him, the eyes set on his, the nostrils flaring again and again.

He was listening, paying attention, perhaps even curious.

Steve shifted his weight.

One shoulder twitched.

Steve kept talking.

“You don’t wanna hurt me boy I know you don’t it’s okay easy that’s a boy easy lad…”

He was moving toward the horse, ever so slowly, one foot in front of the other, trying to make his motions flow as easily as his voice.

“Did I ever tell you about the time my dad was gentling this colt big lanky chestnut thing I think he had warmblood in him if I remember right and he had him all used to the saddle and stuff and then he got on for the first time and the big guy bucked Dad clean over the rail of the corral man it scared the daylights out of my mom and then you know what she gets on and he just stands there pretty as you please I mean you could have flown an airplane into Nick’s open mouth at least that’s the way my dad tells used to tell it…”

He was within arm’s reach of the horse’s shoulder, just another step…

He lifted his hand, saw the muscles twitching, felt the rough hair on his fingers, pressed his palm to warm strength.

WHAM.

He was on his back. Couldn’t breathe. A hoof coming from above. Mouth open, choking, rolling, as it slammed into the dirt inches from his head. He felt the reverberations, and a surge of adrenaline hit, and he was on his feet, scrambling back. Away. Back to the comfort zone.

He stood for longer this time, until his own shaking had passed out of his voice and his hands.

“You know.” Steve’s voice was tiring, he let his words come slower. “I don’t want to hurt you. But maybe you can’t believe that. I mean, I guess, how could you?” Suddenly he was swallowing hard. “What did they do to you? How are you so afraid? I mean, you have so many… scars… they must have… punished you over and over and over again.” A burning behind his eyes. “So many times, and yet you never stop fighting. You still fight. I don’t get it. But I won’t hurt you. I swear, I would never try to hurt you. I wish you could understand me.”

He was again an arm’s length away, standing just to the horse’s left. But he did not reach out. He tilted his head just enough to look into those eyes again.

Fear, matched only by fire. Shattered and unbroken.

The ridges of scar tissue, one, two, three, snaking down the face, one that started below his left eye, the other two appearing from under the long, tangled forelock.

Every scar a story.

Steve stood silent now, unmoving, and a great wave of some undefinable emotion washed over him. A horse battered like he’d never seen before. A cheque beginning with 1 instead of 2. Mothers dying, dads dying, best friends dying. People taking what had never belonged to them.

He closed his eyes.

He could hear the quiver in the horse’s breathing. It matched his own.

“Will you trust me?” Steve whispered. “Please? I know where you’ll be safe. Where no one will ever hurt you again. Where you can be free to live whatever kind of life you want.”

He breathed out, in. Blinked twice. Stopped breathing, as warm air smelling of sweet grass and sharp fear and something else washed over his face. He closed his eyes again, inhaling it. Before he breathed out through his lips, just a little shaky.

A long inhale from the horse. The exchange of breath complete.

“Please,” Steve whispered. “Let me take you home.”

Another long shuddering intake of breath, and an equally long shaky sigh. A quietness settled between them, and Steve realised the horse had stopped shaking.

Steve opened his eyes, and reached for the short line that dangled from the rough rope halter. His fingers wrapped around the knot two feet below the horse’s chin, making sure not to tug on it suddenly. “Easy, boy,” he murmured, “easy now. It’s okay. I’ve gotcha. It’s alright now.”

He breathed out, and then smoothly turned to face the same the direction as the horse, holding the lead lightly, letting his shoulders straighten.

He’d almost forgotten about his surroundings, and was mildly surprised by the crowd of people that filled the aisleway, staring at him. But his focus was taken again, as the horse shifted uneasily. Steve clicked his tongue, and they stepped forward at the same moment.

“Alright, fella, we’re okay now” he murmured. “Let’s go head out to the trailer, and then we’ll figure out what to do from there. You’ll be okay, take it easy now, boy.”

His mind registered Sharon’s white face, and Sam hanging onto Tess’s collar, as he and the horse approached. But it was a lean, bearded man in a dirty red-checked shirt that shoved his way forward to block Steve’s path.

“Alright, now give me my horse.”

The man’s voice was sharp, demanding, and Steve felt the horse shiver. They halted, and Steve met the man’s gaze, which held a mix of fear, surprise, suspicion, and anger.

“How much do you want for him?” He kept his tone on the same level as before, hoping that would be enough to steady the horse. “I assume he was going for meat, so whatever price you were expecting to get, I’ll match. Is that fair?”

Another man stepped forward, a carbon copy of the first except that he carried a little more weight around his middle and his beard was light brown instead of black. He blinked several times, staring at Steve, before his face screwed up in an expression of complete disbelief.

“Are you crazy?!” he spat. “That killer needs a bullet in his brains, which he would have had if I was running this show.”

“Shut up,” the first man snapped. “If we’re getting rid of horses, I’m gonna make some money off them.”

The horse was beginning to tremble again.

“Look,” Steve said, steadily. “I want this horse. I’m willing to talk terms. But he’s gonna lose it again if he has to stand here with you two and all this crowd. So, unless you want someone else getting hurt, I suggest you step aside so I can take him out to my trailer, where he’ll be safe inside, so we can talk.”

He met their eyes, holding back the sudden anger that rose in him, but letting his determination show. It was a long moment, before they reluctantly parted, stepping one to each side.

“Sam, Sharon, go get the trailer ready. Take Tess.

“Go, Tess. Go,” as his dog hesitated, watching him with a whine in her throat. She followed Sam with her feet dragging.

The people parted like the Red Sea as Steve led the horse (ok, he was gonna need a name) in Sam and Sharon’s wake. He simultaneously hated and was thankful for the way they pressed back against the fences, not even risking touching the horse.

“Easy, boy, we’re just gonna walk out to the trailer. How do you feel about those, hm? I’m assuming they trucked you here, but probably in the middle of a group. Well, you’re gonna have mine all to yourself, but there’ll be plenty of hay and some water in a bucket. Not too much, of course, ‘cause we don’t want it slopping everywhere…”

As they stepped out of the barn into the sunshine, Steve blinked, startled to see the sun so high; somehow it felt like either they had just arrived, or they had been here all day.

He risked a glance over his shoulder, felt the sudden tensing of the horse, stared into those dark eyes. “Easy, fella. It’s alright, I promise.”

“Why doesn’t he kill you?”

Steve looked up at the brown-haired man.

“Why doesn’t he?” His voice dropped. “He’s put at least one man _in the ground._ I’ve never seen him back off of anyone. At least, while he could still stand.”

“Look,” Steve said, swallowing back a wave of revulsion at what the man’s words implied. “I want this horse. No matter what he used to be, or what he did.” _Or what you did to him._ “I want him.”

**

“Why?”

Sharon’s question stopped him, reaching for the handle of the driver’s door. He turned, found her still standing by the front of the truck, with her hands in her pockets.

Steve let his hand drop to his side, and stared back.

He knew her, as well as he’d ever known anyone; friends since they were little kids, holding hands in Sunday school. He understood the way she was asking this; not like she was mad or scared or didn’t want him to do it. She just needed to see what he was seeing.

Steve turned to slump back against the truck, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and staring off into the middle distance. The sun was warm on the top of his head. He felt suddenly hungry and tired and dirty, his head still full of paperwork and arguments, signing cheques for what he knew was too much, but honestly not caring, and the papers the on-site vet had given them to help them across the border, since there was no way that horse would let anyone do an inspection of him there and there were all those scars and the fresh cuts to explain.

In the trailer, the horse (he would _not_ call him what they did) shifted, stamped a foot, (he had loaded so easily) and Sharon moved to stand directly in front of Steve. He met her eyes.

“Because for some reason he’s still alive. He’s still fighting. But he’s so… broken.” His voice dropped and he looked down. “All those scars… I have never seen any animal with that many scars. And all over him like that– God only knows what was done to him.”

He looked back up. “And then… he listened to me. For whatever reason. He could have hurt me, maybe even killed me. But he didn’t.”

A nod from Sharon, and he held her gaze, steady.

“I… don’t really know why. But maybe it’s just that… he needs me."

He saw her head tilt, one corner of her mouth go up. “Only you could look at a horse they called ‘Killer’ and say that.”

Steve gave a half-smile. “So, you _don’t_ think I’m crazy?”

Sharon was shaking her head as she stepped back. “No. You’ve got a gift with horses, and I’d be furious with you if you didn’t use it.” She stopped, partway around the front of the truck, to glance back at him. “Just…” Her eyes gave her away. _Be careful._ “Don’t forget I fell in love with you for other reasons too.”

They both swung up into the cab at the same time, and Steve shut his door with one hand, reaching for one of hers with the other. She smiled as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Name one.”

A sparkle in her brown eyes, before she was laughing. “You hate Cheez Whiz.”

Sam’s groan joined Steve’s laugh. “You guys are so weird,” came the complaint from the back seat.

“Which—I assume—is why we are friends,” Steve said, letting go of Sharon’s hand to find the keys and buckle his seatbelt. “Looks like we’ll have you home well before supper. Sandwich?”

“Guess I’ll have the big story of the day,” Sam said, rummaging in Aunt Winnie’s bag, and pulling out a sandwich to put in Steve’s outstretched hand. “Watching you talk down a crazy horse. And then go and buy the killer from the killer buyers.”

“He’s not a killer,” Steve said, sharper than he intended.

Sam shrugged, caught Steve’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Well, then what’s his name?”

Steve put the truck in drive, and slowly pulled out of their space onto the grass, in order to circle back to the gravel drive. He didn’t speak again until they pulled out onto the main road, between the sandwich, the driving, and the question.

What was he going to name this horse, who had looked at him with terror, fought him with courage, and followed him with an inexplicable trust?

_Warrior? Soldier? Braveheart?_

“I don’t know,” Steve finally said. “Maybe he does.”


	4. But His Name is 'Winter'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, he's finally getting a name!  
> It's worth mentioning that the theme song for this story is "Fix You" by Coldplay. :'3

“Wow.”

The word was barely above a whisper. Uncle George, still in his clean button-down and good jeans, just home from his town job at the grocery store, blinked a couple times, not taking his eyes off the horse, who stood in the middle of the corral, staring back. A strand of hay dangled from the horse’s lips, trailing down to the flakes by his front feet, which Steve had tossed him earlier.

Aunt Winnie said nothing, just leaned her arms on a rail and watched… him. (Seriously, he needed a name.) In fact, Aunt Winnie _still_ hadn’t said anything, even though she’d been in the barn when they pulled in, having sent Nick home early, and had helped prep the corral and unload him.

Steve sat on the top of the fence panel above them, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees. It was nearing the end of what had been a fine day, the sun now gilding the ranch in orange fire, making Steve squint. The breeze coming down from the mountain smelled of snow.

Sam and Falcon had already left, but Sharon sat beside him, using her hands to balance, and letting her legs dangle.

“Yeah,” she said.

Steve kept his mouth shut, holding his own words inside. He wanted to talk, to tell all about the strange and powerful connection he’d felt with this horse, something so different. It was almost… and he felt almost afraid of thinking it, but it was almost… like Buck. Except that was different because… Buck was young and strong and hopeful, and Steve had been too. And now Steve was old and battered and uncertain, and Buck was long gone. But this horse…

He could almost feel his mother smiling at the idea, as if she was right there listening to his thoughts.

 _“Not_ so _old, darling.”_

“You know,” Uncle George finally broke the silence. “He should be ugly with all those scars. And he is. But… he isn’t.” He glanced up at Steve, offering a helpless shrug.

“You want to fix him.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Steve glanced at Aunt Winnie, then looked away again quickly.

“No.” _Yes._ “Not… like that.” _I… want to save him._ “I… want to… set him free, maybe. Or maybe, put him back together? Maybe they’re the same thing? I don’t know.”

It had sounded better in his head, but then Sharon caught his eye; she was smiling.

“Well, if that’s all from human abuse,” Uncle George said quietly, “you’re gonna have your work cut out for you, son.” He sighed and stepped back, tugged his ballcap back onto his head. “Which means we should eat.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw a funny smile on Aunt Winnie’s face as she turned away. “It’s your night, hon,” she said, linking her arm with her husband's.

“Oh, right.” Uncle George had clearly forgotten. “Okay, burgers in thirty minutes, everyone.”

“Sounds good,” Sharon said. She was still watching Steve, before looking back at the horse.

“Thanks, Uncle,” Steve added.

It was just him and Sharon, when she broke the silence again. “It’s weird that he’s so quiet, don’t you think?”

“He was pretty chill travelling.”

“Umm. But no one else could have unloaded him that quietly.”

Steve lifted one shoulder. “It didn’t all go quietly.”

“I don’t think we can expect it to.”

He had only ever been able to read as much in a horse’s eyes once before, but what he kept seeing in this horse was always heartbreaking. A heaviness had settled in his chest as they left the auction, and every time he caught another glimpse of the terrified eyes, awaiting some kind of punishment, that pain would sharpen.

In unloading the horse, Steve had stopped him at the bottom of the ramp, the trailer filling the open gateway so that they were already in the corral, letting him take in his surroundings. The horse hadn’t seemed to care at first, too focused on Steve's close proximity, but as before Steve’s voice seemed to settle him. He had sniffed long and deep several times, lifting his head to dart glances around.

“If he won’t let anyone touch him, how have his feet been trimmed?” Sam had asked behind them.

“Dope him, probably.” Sharon had hesitated. “I hope we won’t have to.”

Getting the horse’s dirty, old rope halter off had probably been the trickiest thing for Steve that day. He’d finally settled on cutting it with scissors, a single snip of the crownpiece setting him free. The tug had been inevitable and Steve had had to dodge pretty quick. He’d backed away, gripping the handful of rough rope, keeping his voice low.

“There you go, big guy. You’re free now. Just you. And I don’t plan on trying to put any kind of halter on you again, unless you’re willing.”

The horse had stood still again, and watched him, until the trailer pulled out and the gate clanged shut.

Now Sharon shifted on the rail next to Steve, and he caught the way the horse’s ears flicked, the way he stopped chewing for a second, watching.

“Just cause he’s quiet doesn’t mean he’s not nervous,” Steve murmured.

“Classic signs of abuse.” Sharon sighed. “It’s just so hard to look at those scars and not let myself imagine what might have been done to him. Makes me wish I had a magic wand or something to take them away.”

“I don’t.” He felt Sharon’s questioning glance, but didn’t take his eyes off the horse. “They’re battle scars. He has them because he’s still alive. And maybe someday… those will be the only scars he has.”

Sharon gave her head a little shake, but when Steve glanced over, the girl was smiling at him. “I haven’t seen you this… intent on something in ages. I like it.”

Steve was tempted to roll his eyes at her, but restrained himself. He knew what she meant, knew how many dark days she had seen, when it was all he could do just to breathe. He turned, swinging his legs over the top rail and dropping to the ground outside the corral, and she followed. He could still feel her smile, and she reached to grab his hand, linking their fingers.

“Any more ideas on what to name him?”

Steve shrugged, gave a frustrated sigh. “Not really. As good as it sounds ‘Warrior’ just doesn’t seem to fit. Or ‘Soldier’.”

“He’s a fighter,” Sharon nodded. “But you don’t want him to have to fight anymore.”

“That’s the idea.”

With the sun slipping toward the horizon, the air was cooling, and Steve’s stomach was telling him to think about supper. It had been a long day, he realized. And not at all what he’d been expecting, when he rode up to the ridge that morning with Val. Time would tell whether that was a good thing, or a bad thing.

He and Sharon were on the porch, when Tess barked.

**

“Steve. Sharon.”

“Ma’am.”

Sergeant Maria Hill, shook her head, cracking a rare smile. “How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t have to call me ma’am.”

“As many times as I call you that?” Steve ducked his chin, sheepishly.

“You two know Deputy Coulson?” Hill asked, gesturing to the man who came around the front of the squad car to join them, Tessa sniffing around his knees and begging for a scratch.

“Still haven’t gotten that promotion?” Steve asked, shaking the older man’s hand.

Coulson looked regretful. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Small talk out of the way, Steve looked at the two police officers standing in his ranch yard, and asked the important question. “What do you need? I mean, I’m guessing you didn’t come for supper.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Coulson’s grave face made Steve’s stomach turn over, but Hill was pulling a paper from the front pocket of her shirt.

“You bought a horse at an auction in B.C. earlier today, correct?”

Steve nodded slowly.

“Don’t tell me he’s stolen property?” Sharon blurted.

Hill raised her eyebrows. “Not as far as we know. But the horse injured someone at the auction, correct?”

 _Uh oh._ “Yeah.”

“Not too seriously,” Sharon cut in. “I spoke to her, was there when the medics came. I’d say broken ribs, internal bleeding, and some nasty rope burns. Actually, I heard her say ‘At least this time I didn’t get knocked unconscious.’”

“That matches with the report we were given.” Steve thought he glimpsed an apology, through Sergeant Hill’s professional face. She tucked a piece of dark hair that had escaped her braid behind her ear.

“We’re here because someone, a relative of the woman who got hurt, has lodged a complaint about the horse, wanting it to be investigated as a dangerous animal. The complaint was taken by the RCMP, of course. They made inquiries at the auction house, found out who bought the horse, and then passed it on to us.”

 _Complaint. Dangerous animal._ _No…_

Some of Steve’s worry and uncertainty must have shown on his face, because now she really did relax, sympathy in the way she set her mouth. “Look, I know you, Steve. There’s only one reason you would bring a potentially violent horse home: because you think you can help it. And not only do I know you, but I trust you. At least when it comes to horses. Honestly, this is really just a formality.”

“Can you show us the animal?”

Coulson offered a small smile of his own, and Steve allowed himself to take a deep breath. “Sure.”

And now they were walking back across the gravel yard toward the office, and around the corner of the barn.

Steve would have bet that the horse had been listening to the voices, because he was watching for them. Other than still chewing, he did not move or take his eyes off the four people as they approached his corral.

Hill cursed softly, and Coulson let out a shocked, “Huh.”

“How the hell did you get that guy across the border?” the Sergeant asked, not taking her eyes off him.

“Some fast talking,” Steve said.

“And some papers the vet at the auction gave us,” Sharon added.

“He was the one who gave us your information.” Coulson turned toward Steve, clearly happy to be able to look somewhere else. “He said the horse was clearly abused—I believe his term was ‘viciously abused’? But that you were able to control him.”

“As long as I don’t threaten him, or actually touch him, he’s okay.” Steve could feel the anxiety rising again. He was tired, he was hungry, and he wanted to keep that horse. Without fear of him potentially being killed.

“So, no inspection at the border then.”

“No. No way would he have let someone inspect him.”

“He’s to be in quarantine for three weeks,” Sharon said. “And he’s not allowed off the ranch until we can get the Coggins done.”

“Good thing you have a lot of land,” Coulson nodded.

“What are you going to do for him?” Hill asked.

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know, yet. He’s… I’ve never seen anything like him, he’s–”

“Someone… twisted him.” Sharon bit her lip, glancing up at Steve before she looked back at the horse. “Someone took him and tried to turn him into something else, something horrible. Like… a monster of some kind. Maybe that sounds weird, but that’s what I see.”

“But he’s not. He’s just a horse. Who doesn’t want to get hurt again.”

Now, Maria Hill turned from the fence and looked at Steve. “And what if you can’t fix him?”

Steve stared back, unblinking. Because, no, he was not going to think of that possibility. “I don’t give up that easy.”

The woman’s mouth twitched. “No,” she said, and Steve knew what she was thinking, remembering “No, you don’t.

“Okay,” she went on briskly. “I’m filling out this report to say that the horse is not apparently dangerous, and is in a good, caring situation, where he will be cared for properly. And that should be the end of that.”

Steve nodded, swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

Coulson added, “Oh, and you are obligated to notify us of any incidents. But only if someone has to be taken to the hospital.”

“Which does not mean you will be allowed to hide any injuries from me,” Sharon said, turning to Steve with a frown.

There was some teasing in her tone, and Steve gave a little sigh and groaned. “Yes, dear.”

The mood lightened as a chill mountain breeze gusted around them, making them all hunch their shoulders, and Coulson zip up his jacket.

“Okay, I’m declaring ‘Killer’ is not a killer,” Hill said, beginning to lead them back toward the house.

“Don’t call him that!”

Steve blew out a short breath. “Sorry, but he isn’t a killer, and he won’t be called one.”

Hill shrugged. “That was what they called him, but okay. What’s his name then? I need something to put on the papers.”

Steve stopped and looked back at the horse, still clearly visible in the early twilight. He was not watching them. No, he was… drinking the wind. Head high, nostrils flared, facing into the current of air rolling down off the mountains from the east, smelling of snow and wildness and the changing seasons.

And Steve saw no scars, only a fine head, and a ruffled forelock, and a long black mane tossed off of an arched neck, and he had no idea where the pain in his chest was from, but he knew that a beautiful horse would always move him.

“Winter.”

His voice startled both of them, the head swinging round, their eyes connecting across the 50 yards or so that separated them.

“His name is Winter.”

“Winter Wind.”

Sharon was smiling when he looked at her.

“Nice,” Hill nodded. “Winter it is. And now we’ll let you all get back to your supper.”

It was later than usual when Steve got ready for bed that night. He’d offered to drive Sharon home since it was dark, but he had yawned in the middle of his words, and Sharon had laughed and kissed him and told him to go get some sleep, she was used to riding in the dark anyway.

The three-quarter moon had cleared the horizon, and Steve glanced out the window, before he turned off the light. He saw something moving, over beside the barn, and switched off the light, sitting in the dark until his eyes adjusted.

The shadow of a horse, trotting around the big corral, the shadow of Winter. A smile slowly worked its way across Steve’s face. “G’night, Winter,” he whispered.

As he lay down, he thought of adding a prayer, like he used to, but compromised by thinking of a word he hadn’t thought in awhile.

_Thanks._

He was surprised to realize that he meant it.


	5. Time and Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone, sorry this is late. Hope it's worth it. :3

Time.

_It’s gonna take time._

Steve knew that, knew it as surely as the sun set in the west and a hand was four inches. But how _much_ time?

Nick had his arms crossed, scrutinizing the corral’s lone occupant with his lone good eye. Steve’s gaze flicked from one to the other.

“Can’t say.” Nick shifted to stick his hands in his pockets. “Could be a month, could be a year, could be never.” (The word _never_ a blow to Steve’s stomach.) “You don’t know what’s been done to him, and he can’t exactly tell you what makes him tick.”

“Not in words.”

He saw the ghost of Nick’s smile. “Exactly what your father would say. Just as crazy as he… was.” They both pretended not to notice the near mistake.

“Remember Diablo?” Nick asked then.

“How could I forget?” Steve shook his head, grinning wryly. “He was a little devil. But…” He chewed his lip, amusement fading. “Diablo was a bluffer. All threat, no finish. He never meant it. This guy… Winter’s not bluffing. He acts like he means it.”

“Do you think he does?”

Steve kept his eyes on Winter, noted an extra stiffness in the line of his neck. “I… don’t think so.”

“You mean you don’t _want_ to think so.” Nick gave a little snort. “You can’t fix them all, Steve.”

“I can try to fix this one.”

Now Nick turned away, tugging on the brim of his hat. “Well, whatever you do, don’t push him. That will do more harm than good. Use your head, not just your heart. Understand me?”

Steve’s chin came up, meeting Nick’s sharp glance. “Yes, sir. I do.”

Nick headed for the barn, shaking his head. “Don’t call me 'sir',” he called over his shoulder. “Thought you were the boss around here. Cap.”

It was hard that week for Steve to do his normal chores, and just let Winter settle into his new surroundings. Any spare minute he had, he kept drifting off to the corral to lean on the rails and watch Winter watch him.

He learned a lot just from that.

He saw the cuts on Winter’s knee and shoulder healing fine. He discovered that he would only drink from a rubber tub out in the open, rather than a bucket hanging from the fence. Winter would almost religiously eat every scrap of hay he was given, whiffling his lips over the ground to find pieces Steve couldn’t see. He preferred apples to carrots, but would eat either, and he seemed to have no clue what peppermints were. And even when he _looked_ completely relaxed—chewing his hay, or standing in the sunshine with a hoof cocked—there was an intense watchfulness about him.

The only time Steve could actually say Winter looked… _happy_ , was when the wind came around, and not just off the mountains, either. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the sweep of air over his face, tossing his mane, the smells he drew from it. It was the dreamer in Steve that liked to think he could feel the freedom of the wind, and maybe it made him forget all the bad things. Just for a minute or two.

Then there was the way he looked when Steve would stand quietly, always keeping a few feet between them, and sing to him. If he stood still enough for long enough, he could get the shakes to leave Winter’s body, and a kind of quietness would fill the air between them. But only for moments long enough to give Steve hope—without promises.

By the fifth day, Steve had to say it out loud. “I don’t think he’s gonna settle any more than he already has. Or is that my imagination?”

Sam shrugged, pulling down the zipper on his jacket, before leaning against the fence beside Steve. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and they had originally been planning to work with one of Steve's horses named Rambo who had turned up with a stone bruise that morning.

“For all we know, he’s used to travelling a lot, seeing new places.” He glanced at Steve. “Yeah, I’d probably agree. But don’t… get impatient, and… think you’re seeing what you want to see.”

Steve huffed a sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

There was a short silence.

“He hates it when people put their hands in their pockets.”

Sam blinked. “Huh? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Makes him nervous. He likes to be able to see people’s hands, probably so he can tell they’re not carrying anything.”

Sam was nodding. “I can understand that.”

Another quiet minute, before Sam straightened, stepped back. “Come on, let’s go for a ride. Take a couple horses down the road to the trails. Maybe hit up the falls? Haven’t been there in while.”

Steve turned, opening his mouth, but Sam beat him with a shake of his head. “He’s fine. You can leave him there for a couple hours. Come on, man.”

There was a slight plea in Sam’s voice, and Steve felt a stab of guilt, suddenly realizing how many little things he had seen Sam filling in around the ranch the last few days. Things Steve usually did. Plus, it was their custom to ride the trails up around Rainbow Falls at least once a week, if not more often. It was already Thursday and Steve had hardly stirred from the ranch.

“Sorry. Yeah, you’re right. Go grab Falcon, I’ll take… Cinders.”

“Sweet.” Sam could not disguise his grin as he turned away, and Steve gave him a parting punch in the shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, Winter,” Steve murmured, meeting the horse’s gaze one more time, before he followed his friend.

**

It was a gorgeous late September day, and Steve sucked in deep lungfuls of fall air, smelling of turning leaves and turned earth. The steady clip-clop of unshod hooves on asphalt, birds singing, the scream of a red-tailed hawk… “Country roads, take me home…”

He could hear Sam laughing, before he joined in:

_“… to the place I belong._

_West Virginia, mountain mama_

_Take me home, country roads…”_

They were still warbling—or more like Steve was trying to warble and Sam was trying to make him laugh by changing the lyrics—when they turned off the road into the cleared parking area at the head of the trails. There were only two vehicles there, a green pickup, and an SUV with a big LA Dodgers decal that filled the back window.

“They must be visitors,” Steve said, nodding at the SUV as they passed it.

“Either that or someone had a conversion,” Sam frowned. Their town, for as long as Steve could remember had supported the Mariners, thanks to several local connections.

Conversation died as they entered the woods and chose one of the twisting paths that led up into the foothills in the general direction of the falls. Steve let Sam go first, concentrating on controlling his mount. Cinders was a big grey mare, only five years old, and Steve was dealing with her fear of trailers. She also had a thing about following.

It must be the Thoroughbred in her, Steve decided, as he reined her back four, five, six steps, before letting her catch up to Falcon. They were following one of the wider paths, and Steve zigzagged her from one side to the other, throwing in some leg-yielding and half-passes for good measure. At one point he even turned her right around and made her back up towards Falcon.

They were both sweating by the time Cinders settled into a resigned walk behind Falcon, and Sam turned to grin. “You wishing you brought a different horse now?”

“Nah,” Steve shook his head, bumped his hat back with one finger, keeping a steady contact with his reins. “She needs the work.”

“Should open up in… two corners? Then you can let her come alongside.”

“Don’t let him run until we’re well out,” Steve called. “Don’t want them anticipating.”

“Roger. Rogers.” Sam was chuckling.

They were maybe ten yards back of the second last turn before the meadow, when Sam’s head jerked. Falcon stopped, so suddenly that Cinders almost walked up his rear end.

“What are y-?” Steve started, but then he heard it too.

There were two networks of trails around Rainbow Falls. On the north, where Steve and Sam were, were the trails for foot traffic: hikers, dog-walkers, horses. On the other side, south of the falls, were the trails for mountain bikers and four-wheelers.

Now Steve could hear the clear buzz, like a very grumpy blue-bottle, of a dirt-bike. More than one dirt-bike. Coming from the meadow, which was definitely 100% on this side of the falls. And they were getting closer. Close enough for Steve to hear voices over the engines.

“Sam,” Steve called, keeping his voice strong. “If they come down here, we’ve got nowhere to go. We’re gonna have to turn and go back to the last fork.

“Sam!” he repeated.

With some effort Sam turned his head, and Steve saw his eyes gone wide, unfocused. _Dang it! Stupid motor bikes, what the hell they think they’re doing?_ Squashing the panic that flared in his chest, Steve swung down from Cinders, pulling the reins over her head. She had her ears up now, listening to the approaching clamour, uncertain, but not afraid. Yet.

“Stand,” Steve said clearly, twitching the bridle slightly to make sure she got the message. The way Sam was acting, Steve would have to get a hold of Falcon’s bridle and turn him around himself. Still holding the ends of the reins, Steve walked up alongside the chestnut flank, checking Falcon could see him, reaching to grip Sam’s leg.

“Hey, Sam?” Steve had to raise his voice, because suddenly the dirt-bikes were close, too close, he thought he glimpsed them through the trees. Sam’s hands had clamped down on the reins, and Falcon was tense as a coiled spring.

Sam glanced down at him. But Steve had no time left.

He caught Falcon’s bridle, pulling him around, even as he balked at turning his back on whatever terror was coming. Cinders was already backing down the trail, white around her eyes, ears gone crazy. Steve reached her in one stride. But he was too late.

The roar of engines, voices shouting.

Hooves in front of Steve’s face, a panicked squeal.

Bright yellow, red, green; blurred.

The wrench in Steve’s shoulder, branches snapping, cracking, something hitting a tree.

A strong smell of gasoline exhaust and pine sap and dirt and horse.

“Cindy!”

In the wake of the hurricane Steve was scrambling to his feet, dirt and needles covering his shirt, feeling the burn across his hand, his shoulder where he’d hit something.

He saw the flash of her tail as she vanished around the corner. Toward the meadow.

He stumbled onto the path, trying to catch the breath that had lodged in his throat, lungs and heart racing. He cursed himself. _“Never let go,”_ his father had always told him. _“No matter what, never let go.”_

A valuable horse like that– Another crash in the brush, and he swung around. Falcon, reins tangled in a dead tree, eyes wide, rolling, sides heaving.

“Hey. Hey, easy boy.” Steve was panting, no way to hide it, but he kept his movements smooth, if hurried. “Some crap shoot there, eh? Easy there, big guy. Let’s get you back on solid ground now.”

He stroked Falcon’s neck, rubbing his hand at the horse’s withers in front of the saddle blanket, and felt him calm. It was easy to untangle the reins then, and they picked their way back toward the path. Only as they were standing in the open and Steve was running his eyes over Falcon, seeing nothing worse than a few scratches on his legs, did it hit Steve.

“Sam? Sam?”

He glanced around, Falcon’s head going up, ears pricking.

“Sam!” There was real panic in Steve’s voice now. “Where are you?”

Trees, trees, green undergrowth, darker dead wood… Then, half-hidden by the bushes, blue jeans, brown leather jacket. “Sam!”

“Hello!”

He spun, Falcon moving with him.

“Is this your horse?”

A woman with long brown hair, wearing hiking clothes, with a chocolate lab trotting at her side. Cinders followed in their wake.

“Yeah. Yes.” Steve nodded his head, hard, holding out Falcon’s reins. “Can you take him, please? My friend–”

She hadn’t even closed her fingers around the leather, before Steve was running.

Sam was pushing himself up, groaning, coughing, spitting out dirt. Steve’s boots skidded, before he caught himself on a tree. He heard Sam gasp something.

“Sam!”

A cough. “Ri. Riley. Riley!” Sam’s voice louder with each call.

Steve froze, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. Did… did Sam think…?

Sam was trying to push himself to his feet, hands scrabbling at the dirt, one now finding the tree trunk. And then he was standing, breathless, pushing off of the tree, stumbling. Steve caught his arm.

“Sam?” It came out way shakier than he wanted. “Can you–?”

Sam swung toward him, hands grasping Steve’s upper arms. “Riley?” he choked out, terrified eyes searching the other boy’s face.

“No, it’s Steve. Steve. I’m Steve. We were riding. Falcon… spooked. Threw you…” Steve tried to keep his voice calm, tried to catch Sam’s gaze and hold it. Tried to find the words that would bring Sam back to here. Now.

Sam was blinking, staring, then his gaze flicked past Steve, to where a soft nicker was heard. Falcon’s. Back to Steve’s face. “Ste-Steve?” he faltered. “Where’s-?” He let go, abruptly, stumbling back a step into another tree, and Steve caught his shoulder. But Sam was looking at his hands. Turning them over, the strong, brown fingers trembling.

A terrible broken kind of sound came from Sam’s throat, before he turned and bent double, vomiting into the brush.

Steve caught his shoulders, steadied him, then moved to stand beside him, wrapping one arm around Sam’s side. He felt his own gag coming, swallowed forcefully.

“Easy,” he whispered. “Easy, it’s alright, it’ll be okay now, easy.” Then Sam was collapsing, his legs folding under him, and Steve held him, dragged him back to sit against a tree.

He was sobbing now, crying too hard to breathe, and Steve couldn’t say another word, he just sat down next to his best friend, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held on.

There were tears on Steve’s face too, and a horrible fierce ache behind his breastbone, a pain he knew well. Too well.

Riley had been Sam’s best friend, his brother in every way that mattered. Steve only knew that from things Sam and other members of his family had said. He had never met Riley, because the boy—tall, skinny, blond, laughing out of the picture frame on Sam’s desk, his arms draped across Sam’s chest from behind—had been killed in an ATV accident two months before the Wilsons moved to Fernwood.

It hadn’t even been anything stupid. They’d been out with some friends, friends with dirt bikes and quads, and someone else had crashed. It was bad enough to break a leg, but certainly not life threatening. But Sam and Riley had been the ones sent back for help, the ones racing on a mission, a good deed. Before _everything_ went wrong.

Steve had never found words for moments like this, when the pain was too much to bear, and all you could do was cry until you were either empty or dead. He could easily imagine how close this incident could have come to replicating that previous one, the one on the worst day of Sam’s life.

So, Steve just did the one thing he knew to do, because it was the thing that meant the most to Steve too. He sat beside Sam, and he didn’t let go.

**

It seemed like a long time, before Sam was finally quiet, head resting against Steve’s shoulder, not speaking; and Steve became aware of a branch stabbing him in the spine.

And it felt like an even longer time—after Steve thanked the woman and she promised to report the bikers and Steve thanked her again and they finally remounted—before they reached the falls.

High, but not wide, it was Fernwood’s especial beauty, famous for its play of light and water, and the resulting shimmers of colour.

They pulled their horses in, sat for a long time, watching the rainbows dance with the foam.

Steve almost missed Sam’s voice under the roar.

“I still see his blood on my hands. Everywhere…”

Their eyes caught, held. Steve gave the tiniest nod, glanced back toward the white water, cascading over the rocks above their heads, falling down, down, down into the rocks and the rush of the creek.

“Let’s go," he said. “The horses will be fine. There’s no one else around. We can’t get paranoid,” he added quietly, as Sam swung off but hesitated, his hands lingering on Falcon’s reins.

They ground-tied the two horses, left them standing in the sun, and made their way down to the water. As they ditched their boots and socks and rolled up their jeans, Steve could feel Sam’s breathing getting easier, something lightening between them.

Years ago, Sharon and Steve had discovered the way over the rocks and partway up the cliff, to the undercut and the ledge where they could stand right behind the falls. It had long been their special place. Sam had seemed to sense that, the first time they took him there.

Now the two young men did not speak as they climbed, Sam moving quick in Steve’s wake.

It was too loud behind the falls to hear anything else, unless you screamed. The rock was cold under his bare feet, and Steve could feel the mist settling on his clothes. He moved to the edge of the rock, sticking his hands right into the rushing water.

It was cold; not fresh-spring cold, but summer cold, with a hint of coming snow.

Beside him, Sam moved even closer, first splashing his face clean, then rinsing his mouth out, before he finally buried his hands in the curtain of water, rushing over them on and on and on.

Steve saw out of the corner of his eye, how Sam’s lips moved, and he closed his eyes, letting the sound surround him.

They stood there for a long time. For as long as Sam needed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted:  
> "Take Me Home, Country Roads" by John Denver


	6. Join Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again my apologies for lateness. Had a rough weekend, and caught a nasty cold. Am much better now though!  
> Please note that this fic isn't supposed to be giving advice about training or working with horses. Every animal is different, and this is just my take on one situation with one horse, and what may or may not work for him.

Rain on the window.

Steve turned over, rubbing his eyes, staring out at the dark sky slowly lightening to grey, the dripping branches of the cedars. No wind.

His alarm began to beep, and he reached over to smack the off button. He sighed then, closing his eyes and lying still.

He hadn’t told anyone yet, but today was the day he planned to attempt a join-up with Winter.

One week had slipped into two, then three, and now four. Four weeks since he had hauled Winter home in his trailer from that auction. And still Steve had never touched him. He’d come close a couple times, but Winter had always jerked back, or swung his head around to try to take a chunk out of Steve’s arm. He’d torn one of Steve’s favourite shirts that way.

But Steve was getting… frustrated. Yes, Winter looked healthier, and he seemed to be more relaxed around Steve at least. But there was some barrier, some gap between them that Steve couldn’t figure out how to get past.

Obviously, Winter had been viciously abused; whipped, spurred, and God only knew what else. Other scars gave Steve the impression of being a result of fights with other horses. Brutalized by humans, and likely cast out by his own kind…

Steve let out a long breath, rolling onto his side to watch the drops chase each other down the glass. How could he explain the way Winter looked at him?

“I think he _wants_ to believe me,” he murmured aloud. “But… he doesn’t want to get hurt again. He’s just trying to protect himself.” _But you don’t have to protect yourself from me, Winter._

Steve had used join-up countless times to break through to horses in all kinds of situations. And he had never been so uncertain about it. Even as he planned out the process, he wondered if it was the right thing to do.

He just wanted so badly to take care of Winter. To groom him and get the mud and filth out of his coat, to scratch his neck and make him close his eyes and fall asleep under Steve’s hands, to be able to take him out on long rides where they could run with the wind as far as they wanted.

That was what he was used to doing with horses. Working with them, even as he led them. Partners, friends. And he wanted that for Winter. He wanted that _with_ Winter.

But… how could he make Winter understand that?

A door creaked down the hall, and Steve stilled, listening to his uncle shuffling to the bathroom. With a groan, Steve stretched and sat up, swinging his feet to the floor.

He dressed quickly, only slowing as he buttoned his shirt, his eyes playing over the bulletin board above his desk. It was covered in photographs and papers, scribbled notes, phone numbers, brochures and old show programs. But his eyes snagged on a picture of a thin man with shaggy brown hair, face-to-face with a tall black horse. Joseph Rogers had one hand resting on the horse’s forehead, his head bowed to exchange breaths.

It came out of nowhere, as usual, even now years after the fact; the stab of pain, as if part of his heart had just been sliced away. The ache of the empty space where Steve had always had his father.

_What should I do, Dad?_

The words filled Steve’s mouth, but he couldn’t speak. He finished dressing to only the sound of the rain on the roof.

**

It was Sharon who put his doubts into words, as they stood by the corral, shoulders hunched, water dripping off the brims of their Stetsons.

She always came later on Fridays, because it was a day off for one of the Carters' cowboys, and she had found Steve in the machine shed with the grease gun, trying not to think about the three cancellation emails he’d found before lunch. He’d been under the tractor when he told her his plans (because, no, he was not stupid enough to keep something like that to himself), but her long silence said plenty.

Now she stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jacket, before hastily pulling them back out; Steve caught the faintest twitch of a muscle in Winter’s neck.

“How do you know he’ll understand you?”

“I don’t.” Steve looked down suddenly, biting his lip and twisting his bracelet several times around his wrist. The memory was sharp then: standing quite still, almost holding his breath, until the sound of hoofs moved toward him; a soft nose nudging into his shoulder blade; walking a complete circuit of the corral, before he turned; the light in Buck’s eyes, as they leaned in to touch noses.

“Steve?”

He jerked his head up, guilt mixing with the pain. “Sorry,” was all he could say.

Sharon gave him a sharp look, bit her lip. “It’s just… Join-up requires the horse to back off, to run away from you. He… doesn’t… do that.”

Steve locked his gaze on Winter, trying to push away the past. He saw how the rain ran down his face, following the scars. Winter chose that moment to brace himself and give a vigorous full body shake, sending a fine spray off his body, before he returned to his hay. And watching his visitors.

“He did. At the auction. When I made him back off the woman.”

“True.” Sharon was quiet.

“I just…” A deep breath. “Think about it,” she started again. “Join-up is supposed to be speaking the horse’s language, right? But I don’t know if he can speak that language anymore. There’s just… so much that’s been done to him, so many layers of bad stuff, bad treatment, that meant he had to learn a whole different way of communicating, a whole different language. I think… we need to try to understand that language first, or is it… teach him our language first? Maybe they’re the same thing.”

All of this was stuff Steve had thought, had been trying to wrestle with and straighten out in his own mind. But somehow, hearing Sharon say it out loud made Steve… almost angry.

“There’s just so many layers. Underneath it all, I believe the same as you, Steve. That there’s a plain, ordinary, completely terrified horse there. But you have to…” A long pause before Sharon reached up to grab her braid, tugging on it in some frustration. “I don’t even know exactly what I was trying to say there.”

“You’re trying to say he could be unreachable.”

“No!”

She was staring at him, and Steve could have kicked himself, because he knew she was right. _He_ was the one who was saying that, _Steve_ was the one was beginning to wonder. To be… scared, that maybe...

“Look, Steve. Even if you are going to do join up with Winter, I don’t think you should do it today. Not when you’re this…”

 _Messed up?!_ he wanted to yell. _Like him? Like everything?_ But he gulped them back, caught the tide of swirling emotions, forced them down.

“…uncertain,” Sharon had finished. “Not to mention this weather.” Steve kept his eyes on Winter, but he felt her stepping close, her gentle hand on his arm, and he could feel the question coming, and he knew he didn’t want to hear it.

“I’ve got to _try._ ”

It came out louder than he meant. Winter jerked his head up, and Sharon drew back slightly. He managed to drop his tone. “Well, I’ve _got_ to try at some point, right? To know what I’m dealing with.”

“You’re getting impatient.”

It was a flat statement, filled with knowing, and he couldn’t explain why it chaffed at him. “No, I’m not! I just…” He exhaled hard. “I have to do _something._ I have to fix him.”

Another silence, and this time her voice was soft with sympathy, which was worse. “Maybe that’s not what he needs.”

Something seemed to rise in Steve’s chest, climbing into his throat, where it sat, making words close to impossible. His fingers were tight around the horse hair braid, and he felt his own pulse hammering in his wrist, and he didn’t know what it was exactly that made him blurt out, “Yeah, well, I gotta fix _something_ around here.”

Sharon didn’t follow him back to the barn.

**

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, but the sand was thick, almost sludgy, under Steve’s boots, as he stood just inside the corral, watching Winter.

Sam and Sharon stood outside, silent; Steve could feel their eyes on his back. He felt cold, his damp jacket weighing on his shoulders.

Winter stood close to the middle of the corral, head up, ears pricked, likely expecting his afternoon hay. Steve knew the exact moment he sighted the halter and lead rope hanging over Steve’s shoulder; a single stutter-step backwards betrayed him.

Steve didn’t know if it was Winter’s posture, or the feeling in his stomach, that formed the word “No” in his head, and for a moment, he hesitated. _Maybe…_

“Steve?” Sam’s questioning voice snapped him back, and Steve could never tell what exactly it was that made his back go straight and his shoulders square, before he walked out to meet Winter.

Eyes locked on Winter’s, he lifted his arms slightly from his sides, making himself bigger, more intimidating. _I’m the boss here,_ Steve was saying. _I’m the leader. Stand down. Back off._

Now Winter took a full step backwards, his eyes wide, and for a moment Steve thought, _This is gonna work._ Another two strong strides forward, and Winter’s ears were going all over the place, as he took one more step back.

Steve was almost to the middle of the pen, and he reached up his right hand to grasp the halter and lead hanging over that shoulder. Shifting them smoothly down, he used the momentum of his walk to let the rope swing loosely in Winter’s direction, with just a little flick.

Winter froze. For a heartbeat.

Steve barely had time to react, sprawling on the ground inches away from the horse’s racing hooves. He spat a curse as he scrambled to his feet, slipping slightly. Winter came again, straight at him. A desperate swing of the rope, and the end caught Winter’s shoulder.

Wet sand showered Steve’s legs as Winder skidded to a stop, Steve leaping aside just in time. Hooves slashed the air above his head, and again he jumped away.

He caught the briefest glimpse of Winter’s eyes; hard, mean, terrified… _Back off!_ Winter was screaming. _Get away from me!_

He spun, unleashed a kick with both hind feet. Steve’s foot slipped, a searing pain in his right arm, reeling, falling.

The rain was falling harder on his now-bare head, as he forced himself to his feet. He thought Sharon called his name. But only the horse filled his vision.

Steve’s heart was racing, he could taste sand and blood, and when he started to make a fist with his right hand, he choked on the pain.

He looked up, saw Winter once more plunging toward him, saw the eyes burning in the hideously scarred face.

_“Stop it!”_

The scream burst out of him, his left hand flying out as if throwing the words at Winter. Startled, the horse swerved at the last second, only his shoulder brushing Steve’s, causing him to stagger. But he found his feet, anger and grief surging through him.

Again, Steve turned to face Winter, shaking rain out of his eyes. “Why are you doing this?!” he yelled. “Why do you hate me?! I didn’t do anything to you!”

There was burning in his eyes, on his cheeks, as he barely dodged the next charge, dropped to avoid the kick, pushed himself up again. _“It’s not my fault!”_

He was shaking now; cold rain, hot tears on his face; struggling to breathe. “I just want… to help you. Please.” A sob choked him off.

This time a hoof caught him in the face, just the edge, slicing across his cheek. He fell, tried to roll, and rolled on top of his injured arm. Through the haze he could hear voices shouting his name. With a gasp, he clenched his teeth together, and surged to his feet. He was slipping on the wet ground though, which forced him to take several steps back to keep his balance.

Winter seemed to pause now, more distance between them, and Steve found his eyes. Held them.

“Steve, back off, now!” Sharon’s voice was right behind him, just loud enough for him to hear. But all he could see was the rage and brokenness in Winter’s huge brown eyes.

“Please,” he choked out. “I’m sorry, Winter. I just…” his voice broke. “I’m sorry.” The last words came in a whisper, and Steve put out his trembling left hand, took one step forward.

Winter charged.

Instinct pulled Steve to one side. But the ground was sloppy, his boots were slipping, he was falling again. Something hit him in the stomach, before the back of his head connected with something hard. With a flash, the pain and the cold and the wet and the guilt all faded.


	7. Fallout

He opened his eyes slowly, aware of a painful pounding in the back of his skull. The light was dim, he seemed to be indoors, lying on a bed… and he could make out a person sitting beside him. They had long hair.

“Mom?” His voice came out as a croak.

“Steve?”

The figure bent closer, warm fingers tangled with his cold ones. He blinked, trying to focus. No, the hair was the wrong shade… “What-?”

“Hey. Hey, neighbour.”

Sharon. Steve had to squint a bit, but he could make out her face now. Was she crying?

“Don’t cry,” he mumbled.

She gave a little laugh. “I’m… not. Not really.” She was sniffing, but he didn’t have the energy to contradict her. “Your aunt and uncle are talking to someone, I’m not sure who, in the hall. You can probably guess you’re in the hospital. Your head hurts and you feel weird because you got a concussion from falling and hitting your head on the fence. You woke up a couple times on the ambulance ride, but you were pretty out of it, and you probably won’t remember that. And your right arm feels heavy because it has a cast on it. Oh, and your stomach probably hurts too, because Winter kicked you there too. You’re going to be fine.”

 _Know-it-all,_ he wanted to say, but what came out was, “Winter?”

“He’s… fine. I told Sam to give him some hay.”

Steve could not comprehend the emotions on Sharon’s face and in her voice. Winter was okay. That was what…

The image of Winter’s face flashed across his mind, and he moaned softly. Okay? Winter? No, no he wasn’t okay.

Steve head was beginning to throb even worse, but he couldn’t hold back the lump rising in his throat. Tears stung the backs of his eyes, and he shut them tight.

“I hurt him.”

Sharon’s fingers tightened around his. “Steve–” she started softly.

“I hurt him.” Steve opened his eyes to a blur. The pain was licking all over him, his head was splitting. “I hurt him. Stupid, so stupid. I d-didn’t want to hurt him.”

Crying hurt. It hurt so bad, he could hardly hear Sharon’s voice, but he could feel her fingers on his cheek. “You made a mistake, Steve. You both did. It was a misunderstanding. But you’ll figure it out. You’ve got time. Just take your time, Steve, okay?”

He felt her moving then, felt himself jostled slightly, and he bit his lips together to hold back the groan, trying to pull himself together. Then she was lying beside him, soft and strong and steady, her arm across his chest smelling of damp hay and dirt, and her voice was in his ear.

“It’s okay to take time, Steve. You don’t have to fix everything right now. It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

“But Winter…” he managed.

“We’ll figure it out. For now, he’s okay.”

Steve thought he could hear other voices somewhere, there seemed to be a crowd in the room suddenly, and he turned his face away into Sharon’s hair, not caring how it hurt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Her kiss was warm on the top of his shoulder. “I forgive you.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, thank God.”

It was his aunt and uncle and he didn’t know who else. But he _couldn’t_. Not right now. The fire was subsiding to a steady throb, a chill settling over him. He had messed up; he had gone and done the one thing he had promised Winter he wouldn’t do—he had hurt him.

It was hard to think straight, but all he could see was the look in Winter’s eyes, the brokenness.

“I love you, Steve Rogers,” Sharon whispered in his ear.

And she did, he knew she did. He didn’t know if he could believe her about everything else, it hurt too much to think. Everything hurt. He lifted his left hand, felt the needle taped to his skin, and gripped Sharon’s arm that lay across his chest. She shifted to slip her hand into his.

He couldn’t find any words, so he just squeezed, three times. _I love you._ Sharon squeezed back. He closed his eyes, shutting out the rest of the world, and listened to her breathe.

**

It was the next afternoon before they let him out.

Aunt Winnie and Sharon were his escort; Nick and Uncle George were doing chores.

“So is Sam,” Sharon added, catching Steve’s look.

He hadn’t seen Sam once at the hospital, but filling in Steve’s chores was a good reason for being busy, and the guilt settled heavier in Steve’s stomach. He was tired from getting woken up every hour through the night, and then finding it hard to fall back asleep thanks to the combination of his head aching and the images of Winter that haunted him. But any trace of frustration or anger was gone, replaced by that sickening cold lump.

Other than answering doctors and nurses, or Aunt Winnie when she asked the usual, “What’s your name? Where are you? Do you know what day it is?”, Steve had kept quiet. So far, no one had yelled at him, but he was pretty sure he had it coming as soon as he got home.

He was supposed to stay quietly indoors for another couple days, and wear sunglasses if he did go outside, thanks to the concussion. The first thing he did after he climbed into the truck—awkward and one-handed—was take off the pair of shades Aunt Winnie had handed him, and stick them in his jacket pocket.

His aunt at the wheel was the one who opened her mouth, but Steve stared straight ahead. “Can we please go home?”

He heard her hold her breath for a long moment, before she let it out. “Yes,” she answered quietly.

Sun wasn’t even out; the ranch lay quiet under a flat grey sky. Tess almost knocked him over with her greeting, squeaking and wagging, and he knelt carefully to bury his face in her fur. They did not let him go see Winter, herding him straight into the house.

Steve wasn’t about to admit that his head was hurting again, so he just kept quiet and wandered into the living room to sit on the couch. Tessa leapt up to curl against him, head in his lap, and he rested his hand on the warm curve of her skull, rubbing his thumb absently over one ear. Gingerly, he leaned his head back, mindful of the bruises on the back of his skull, closed his eyes. Aunt Winnie was singing softly in the kitchen, the front door opening and closing; that would be Sharon going out.

“Steve?”

Aunt Winnie was placing a glass of water and a bottle of pills on the small table near Steve’s elbow. She gave him a little smile. “You can take a couple of these if your head’s hurting.”

“Thanks,” Steve murmured.

He was staring out the window, when he realized she was still standing watching him. When he looked back, he saw Sarah in her sister: the golden blonde hair falling to her shoulders, held back from her face with a colourful kerchief; the lines in her face; the worn spots on the knees of her jeans…

When he stood to hug her, it startled him how her head just reached his shoulder. She always smelled like vanilla.

“You’ll figure it out, Steve.”

He pulled back, gave her a sad smile. “Figure out I’m an idiot, you mean?”

“No.” She gave him one more squeeze before she let go. “How to… Well, maybe this isn’t about fixing him. Maybe it’s just about giving him whatever he needs. And letting that be enough.”

The front door slamming saved Steve from having to respond, and he looked up to see Sam appear in the doorway from the kitchen.

Without another word, Aunt Winnie left, and Steve gave Sam a half smile, letting himself sink down on the couch.

“Hey. How’s it going?” Sam did not respond, except to blink. “Thanks for filling in so much. I’ll try to give you something extra in your next paycheque.”

“No.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“No. Don’t–” Sam gave his head a hard shake, almost looking… angry? “You think I care about money right now? You think that’s why I-?” He stopped abruptly.

“Wha-? Of course not!” Steve protested, bewildered by the strong emotions radiating off of his friend. Tess had her head up, making little noises in her throat. “I just wanted to–”

“Aw, never mind.” Sam turned abruptly, his boots sounding loud on the wood floor.

“Wait.” Steve pushed himself to his feet again, ignoring the throbbing in his head. “Sam, stop. Please.” He took a couple steps forward and spoke to Sam’s rigid back. “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell you sorry for?” came the growl.

“For scaring you.” Even though he spoke softly, Steve felt another twinge in the back of his head. He ignored it to step close enough to touch Sam’s shoulder.

With a jerk, Sam turned and reached out, fumbling his way into a hug. “You stupid, stupid…” he choked against Steve’s shoulder.

Steve closed his eyes, let himself lean into Sam’s warm strength. “Yeah, I know I am,” he mumbled back. “Can you drop it already? Or I might have to hit you with my cast.”

Even through his fuzzy brain, Steve couldn’t help thinking how Sam must be one of the bravest people he knew. To take the risks of being Steve’s friend, letting himself care about Steve, when he could lose him just as quickly as he lost Riley. It wasn’t something Steve had seen before, but he knew it now. Sam really was the best kind of guy to have for a friend.

And then Sam was half-laughing and shaking Steve by the shoulders, which he stopped pretty quick. “Sorry. You should probably go lie down.”

Steve did not argue. When he had taken some of the meds, and was comfortable with Tess and a blanket, Sam hesitated, looking down at him. “You probably don’t want to hear it, but Winter’s not great. I mean, he’s fine and calm most of the time. Until we try to go inside the pen and then he rushes us. We’re dealing, but… He’s gonna need you back. To talk to him, I mean.”

Steve closed his eyes, and Sam’s tone dropped. “So, you’d better get better quick.”

“What makes you think he’d listen to me now?” Steve muttered.

There was a long silence, and Steve was about to open his eyes to see if Sam was still there when he spoke. “Because he knows your voice. I mean, I don’t think he can choose what your voice means to him. He just _knows_ it. Okay, that sounds weird, but–” Sam shrugged. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

He left Steve vacantly puzzling his aching head over his friend’s meaning.

**

“Someone took away his flight option.”

Sharon’s head came up, and she blinked at Steve. “What?”

Steve’s head felt clear this morning, but he was fine with skipping church, and Sharon and Sam had stayed over to keep him company. Sitting around so much gave Steve plenty of time to think, but now he needed to share some of those thoughts.

“Well, there’s supposed to be two options. Fight or flight. Well, there’s also surrender, I guess. They took away his flight option, but he never surrendered. So, they… used that. I think they… _made_ him fight.”

Sam was frowning. “Made him fight… what? Fight them? Fight… other people?”

“Yeah. Something like that. Maybe other horses too. I think.” It was the first time Steve had voiced that idea, just because sometimes he thought it sounded too much like something from the Viking age, too sensational. He saw Sharon’s expression of distaste deepen to one of revulsion.

“But that’s… barbaric!” She sat up straight at her end of the couch, flinging her hair over her shoulder. “All of it! Why would anyone-?”

Steve couldn’t help wincing at the increased volume of her voice, and she immediately throttled back, but he could see her eyes beginning to burn. He could see where her imagination was going; he’d already been there.

“So…” Sam said slowly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his armchair, “what you're trying to say happened is… They tried to break him, and he wouldn’t give in.”

“So, they made a game of it.” Steve bit his lip. “Pushed him as hard as they could. Hurt him in every way they could think of. And he didn’t give in. Winter taught himself to survive.”

“Why?” Sharon’s voice was a whisper, and Steve could see the tears standing in her eyes. “Why do people even-?”

“Same reason you ride a bucking horse,” Sam said. “To win.”

“I know that!” she snapped. “I _don’t_ know why _someone_ would-!” She choked off, and covered her face with her hands.

Steve knew what she was seeing. Winter, covered in blood, a whiplash snaking across his flank. Blood coated spurs. The flash of teeth, the scream of pain. An unidentifiable hand carving the lines down Winter’s face…

“Of course, he’s not going to run,” Steve said quietly. “If all he’s been conditioned to do is fight.”

“That must have been what he thought you were doing. Coming in with the halter and lead like that.” Sam uncrossed his arms, crossed them again. “That’s why he tried to…”

“No. He wasn’t trying to kill me.”

“Oh really?” Sam had his eyebrows up.

“Why else would he let you pull me out of there?” Steve threw back.

Sam stared for a second, before he huffed, sat back. “I… dunno. It all happened so fast, I’d… rather not think about it.”

“He’s a horse,” Sharon’s voice was a little shaky, and she kept her head down, hair hiding her face. “He can’t actually want to kill. He just wants people to leave him alone. To not hurt him. He’s just doing what he learned to do to survive. And maybe that _did_ result in some people getting hurt badly enough they died. But that isn’t, can _not_ be considered his fault.”

The fire was back in her voice and she looked up, glaring at Sam, who immediately put his hands up.

“Whoa. I’m not the one who called him a killer. That was _their_ name for him.”

 _‘Killer’. That was_ their _name for him…_

“The guy at the auction.” Steve straightened, closed his eyes, trying to remember. “He asked why didn’t he kill me? He said… he’d seen him… put a man in the ground. He said… he’d never seen Winter back down, at least while he was still standing.”

“Well, there’s your proof.” Sharon stared at him. “That’s what they made him do.”

“Look,” Sam started, then stopped as both of his friends turned to stare at him. He fixed his gaze on his clasped hands, ran his tongue over his lips. “Dude. I know you’re really amazing with horses and everything, and I get that you want to help this guy, that maybe if you can help him it’ll… make up for– No, not ‘make up for’, but at least–”

He stuck again, hunched his shoulders up to his ears. “I don’t know. Whatever reasons you think you need to do this, I get it, I just…” Finally, he looked up at Steve. “Are you sure you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew?”

Steve stared back, and he knew, he understood. It was Sam asking his version of what Sharon had asked him the first day with Winter. Sam wasn’t usually a cautious person, he liked taking risks and trying new things. Sometimes a bit too much. But now he was uncertain, because it was Steve taking the biggest physical risk, and all Sam could do was try to help.

“Not if we do it together.”

Okay, that wasn’t what Steve had planned to say, but Sam’s smile told him what he needed to know.

“You can count on me, man.”

“And me.” Sharon leaned over to squeeze Steve’s good hand.

Steve couldn’t answer for a moment. Here he was, still discouraged and uncertain about what to do and where to go, half of him suggesting that maybe he should even give up, that everyone thought it was just too dangerous, and _you should listen to them for once_. But now here were Sam and Sharon, even with all their concerns and care for him, agreeing with the other side, the side that said he couldn’t quit, because he’d barely tried, and well, _now you know one thing that’s not going to work._

“But I still say he needs you the most,” Sam added.

Steve glanced down at his arm in its sling, lying across his stomach, felt the pain even through the returning determination. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured.

**

They were just about to sit down to lunch a few hours later when the phone rang. Uncle George brought Steve the cordless with a slight frown. “It’s for you.”

Steve gave him an answering shrug, before he spoke into the phone. “Steve here.”

“Hello, Steve, this is Sergeant Hill calling from the sheriff’s office.”

Steve bit his lip, turning away from the others and walking into the living room. “Yes, ma’am. Is anything wrong?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.” A sharp sigh came from the other end of the line. “I’m guessing you forgot you were supposed to report any incidents involving that new horse of yours?”

Steve’s breath lodged in his throat, and he had to clear it. “Yes, ma’am, I… guess I did.”

“Mmm, leaving me to find out about it at church this morning.” It was hard to tell whether Maria Hill sounded amused or cross. “Well, I’ll take the details right now. And I will know instantly if you are lying.”

Steve didn’t argue, giving date, time, as brief as possible a description of his injuries, and Sam and Sharon’s names as witnesses. He was fully aware of everyone’s eyes on his back as he did so. When the sound of Hill’s typing had stopped, Steve asked quietly, “Is that all?”

“Do you know why _I’m_ calling you today, Steve? Instead of one of the guys from Animal Control?” Steve could almost feel her piercing gaze. “Because I care about you,” she answered herself. “Which you already know.”

“Yeah, I do.” Steve’s heart was somewhere up near his throat now, because he remembered other times when Maria Hill had told him things, things that hurt, things that broke him.

“This makes two incidents that Winter has seriously harmed a person. He put you in the hospital, do not try to argue with me.” Steve swallowed his protest, knowing that she was hating this as much as him. “This is the last warning. A third incident will mean he will have to be put down. Do you understand?”

Steve said the only thing he could, because if he were honest, he’d been expecting this from when she said her name. “Yes.”

“So, stay safe. Both of you. You can’t help him if your arm’s in a sling. And I want to see both of you come out in one piece.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied softly. “Thank you.”

He stood staring out the window over the yard, trying to see right through the office, to the corral on the other side, until the phone began to beep in his ear.

Much later in the day, after dark and before bed, Steve finally slipped outside. It was cold, but not windy, and Steve fumbled to zip his jacket up over his sling. He gave up when he rounded the office and saw the corral, about 50 yards away. He could make out Winter’s shape, moving swiftly in his evening gallop around the perimeter.

Steve tucked his free hand into a pocket, stood still there in the shadows, listening to the quick beat of hooves. It surprised him how lightly and quietly Winter could move, as if he was somehow part horse and part shadow. Subconsciously, Steve knew he was rocking slightly to the rhythm, as if he were riding out that steady pace from the warm safety of Winter’s back.

Steve took a long slow breath of fall air, closed his eyes, breathed out a promise: “Whatever happens, Winter, I will not, will _never_ give up on you. I swear.”

Winter must not have heard him, because his gallop remained steady, before he stopped, spun and set off in the other direction. There was nothing frantic about Winter’s run; he’d been doing it every night for just over a week now, and what Steve had seen was always steady, measured.

Steve could almost feel the wind blowing through his hair, and for that moment, he felt as if they were the only two creatures under that night sky, breathing in the same air, dreaming the same dream.

And for that moment, it was enough.


	8. Square One

_He chased Winter across a field of clouds, calling his name, but the horse always stayed the same distance ahead of him. It felt so utterly hopeless that he wanted to stop, but it was as if an invisible string tied them together, pulling Steve along._

_But then he wasn't chasing anything he was simply running, galloping across mountains and woods and there was a voice calling his name, a voice he knew._

_“Come home. Come home. Please listen to me.”_

_He wanted to turn around and answer, but there was some terrible fear that pushed him forward._

_Then he was falling, falling through cold rain, before he was lying on a soft bed. When he opened his eyes, he stared up at Maria Hill, her dark eyes, tears running down her face._

_He pushed past her and he was running, running through quicksand, across the farm yard to the barn. He could see the shape lying on the ground in front of the doors, the hand reaching out to him. He could not speak, could hardly breathe, as he knelt beside his father, stared into the pale face._

_But it wasn’t his father’s face, it was a skull, empty eyes staring back at him. A skull painted in white on the barn door, with the crossed bones underneath. Steve tried to look away, but he couldn’t, the bony face grinning down at him. Red light flickered in the eye sockets._

_Somewhere in the distance, he heard the shrill whinny of a horse in pain._

_“Winter!”_

_He was on his feet, running… But something was nudging at him, and he could hear an odd whining noise…_

Steve fumbled his way awake, blinked himself into awareness of Tess pawing at him, peering down at him in the dark. He tried to say her name, but he was struggling to breathe.

He reached his good arm to wrap around her neck, and pull her down next to him, so he could bury his face in her warm fur.

“Winter,” he choked out.

A shrill whinny answered him.

He stiffened, lifted his head, uncertain if it was still part of the dream clinging to him, or if… The whinny came again, but softer now, less panicked.

He took a long breath, let it out shakily, and sat up to push aside the blankets. Tess stayed on the bed, watching him as he padded to the window.

He put his hand up against the cold glass, letting the feeling ground him, before he let his focus shift outside. It was probably the call from Sergeant Hill yesterday—no, the day before—that had triggered the way the nightmare ended. It wasn’t her fault; just the way things had fallen out, that she had been the first one on the scene that horrible day…

He exhaled sharply and took note of the clear sky, the moon (waning again) hung high above the ranch. But it was Winter he really wanted to see.

Down in the middle of the big corral, a horse paced. Three, four steps one way, turn, four five, steps in another. Again, the quiet, sad call drifted up to Steve.

Steve frowned. Weird. The way Winter moved was almost as if he was hemmed inside an invisible box inside his pen; he never went more then ten (maybe fifteen) feet from a point roughly in the centre of the large circle made by the steel fence panels. Now Winter rocked back on his haunches, striking the air with his front hooves, before he pivoted, trotting in the opposite direction. But only a couple strides before he pulled up, turning away from a wall. A wall that existed only in his head.

Unease stirred in Steve’s gut, different from the wrenching panic of his dream. Something was wrong with Winter. And it wasn’t like Steve would be able to get back to sleep anyway.

He turned from the window, moving to grab his jeans off the chair. “Come on, Tess,” he muttered, “let's go take a walk.”

**

This time he grabbed his dad’s old coat off the hook by the door, the big one he remembered cuddling under when it was large enough to be a blanket for him. The sleeves were wide enough to accommodate the cast on his right forearm, and he managed to fumble the zipper closed, before he slipped out the front door, catching the screen before it could slam, but dropping his boots in the process. He cursed at himself under his breath. He had grabbed his cowboy boots, and paused on the porch to put them on; he preferred work boots, but obviously he would have no luck with laces for several weeks.

Tess immediately hurried off in the direction of the machine shed, either to sniff for coons, or do her business, or both. Steve let her go, his mind shifting back to Winter, his real concern. Once more he heard the call, even softer now, a plea to the cold air and the silent stars.

Steve felt the wrench as if it was his own name that had been called. “I’m coming, Winter.” His whisper vapourized on the night air.

The sound of Winter’s hooves churning the sand, and the quick huff of his breathing, covered Steve quiet footsteps and he paused at the corner of the office, watching. The movements were less frantic, more resigned now. But still inside the same unseen barriers, is if he were pacing around a stall instead of a corral.

Wait. Did Winter think he was trapped inside a stall? But he’d done his nightly laps around the corral’s rim shortly after dark like always, swift and steady. The perimeter was almost 150 yards; they had made it more than twice the size of a normal round pen for the very purpose of giving him freedom to move. He knew where the fence was. Or maybe… but that was crazy. _Is he stuck in his head? Like a flashback? Or a nightmare?_

Like Sam. _Or like me._

Steve had never considered horses dreaming before, at least not since he was a little kid who asked questions, never mind wondering if horses had nightmares. God knew he’d lived through enough to know even a little about how it could mess with a human brain. And considering what could have been done to Winter…

But now Steve was sick of standing there thinking. Whatever his prison was made of, Winter was trapped, and he needed someone to let him out.

Steve took a deep breath, took a hesitant step forward, and began to sing, lullaby soft.

_“You’re broken down and tired_

_Of living life on a merry-go-round_

_And you can’t find the fighter_

_But I see it in you, so we’re gonna walk it out…”_

He was walking and singing, and it was one of Sharon’s favourite songs forming the cloud above his head.

_“And mo-ove mountains_

_And mo-ove mountains…”_

He had to actually pull back a bit on some of the notes, because he was no longer just singing, he was calling, calling out to Winter.

_“And I’ll rise up_

_Rise like the day_

_I’ll rise up_

_I’ll rise unafraid…”_

The song and the gradual approach were working exactly the way Steve had hoped. Winter had not jumped, or started, or spun to face Steve with fear trembling all over him, like he had the previous afternoon. His movements were slow now, and a little uncertain; he was keeping all four hooves on the ground.

_“I’ll rise up_

_And I’ll do it a thousand times again_

_For you…”_

He was a foot from the fence, when Winter stopped. Head down, body steaming, he stood quietly, broadside to Steve. His eyes were half closed, one ear turning toward Steve’s voice.

_“And we’ll rise up_

_High like the waves_

_We’ll rise up_

_In spite of the ache…”_

He kept singing, his voice even softer now, afraid of breaking this spell weaving between them. In the back of his mind he recognized that he had never seen Winter this vulnerable, not even during all those times when Steve had stood right beside him in the corral and talked. Relaxed, maybe, but not this… exposed, this unguarded. His breathing was still uneven, and his muzzle hung inches from the silvered sand. He was exhausted, spent, and he didn’t seem to care if Steve knew it.

Steve didn’t even realize he had stopped singing, until Winter slowly lifted his head, turning both ears in Steve’s direction.

“Hey,” Steve murmured. “Hey, Winter. Yeah, it’s me. Sorry. I hope I’m not a bother. I had that dream again, the one with Crossbones and my dad. But then you were in it and I woke up. And you weren’t in my dream, you were actually calling.” A hesitation. “Calling for help it sounded like. Which I guess you were.”

He fell silent again, awkward, somehow not knowing what to say with those tired eyes steadily on his.

“I’m sorry, Winter.

“I… know I said that earlier today, or I guess that was yesterday, but– I really am sorry. I just… I don’t know what I’m doing. I have no clue.” There were the tears, coming just when he thought he was done with them.

“How did we get here, huh, boy? I mean, how? How’d we get like this?” A long, ragged breath, roughly swiping a cuff of his coat across his cheeks. “I used to go on these long rides, every night when I woke up from that dream, and my mom, she… kinda freaked out about it and…

“I never told her I was looking for Crossbones. I hated him, maybe even more than I was scared of him. And I thought maybe, if I could find him, I could, you know, save Bucky and maybe even… But I never found him. I wasn’t stupid, you know, just…” Sniffing, not caring that Winter was watching him fall apart; it was safe to do that here. “…crazy. That was only for a few weeks. And then I just looked for Buck because maybe he’d gotten away, and he was coming home, like that Incredible Journey crap, and maybe I could… find him. But I never did.”

He closed his eyes for a minute, somehow exhausted. “And then Mom got sick. And then she died too, and I just… I just… don’t know… where I’m supposed to go next. I’m running the ranch, I have Sharon and Sam, and I _have_ a life, but… I’m still lookin’ for something, you know?”

More sniffling, and now he wiped his nose, his breathing settling again. A wet, breathy laugh.

“I know what Mom would say if she could hear that. ‘Not some _thing,_ but Some _one_.’ But I don’t know. It’s not that I’m mad at God, I’m not.” He tilted his head, thinking, leaning against the cold metal. “I just don’t know what to say to Him. The last thing I talked to Him about was Mom, and… she died. And now… I don’t know how to talk to Him anymore. Any more than I know how to talk to you. Except like this.”

Another long sigh, and Steve felt his legs giving way, and he sank down, to sit cross-legged, leaning against the rails. Winter merely followed the motion with his eyes.

“We really are a pair aren’t we, Winter?” Steve gave his head a slow shake, a smile somehow tugging at his lips. “I mean, look at us. I’ve got my arm in a cast and a bald patch on the back of my skull where they had to put in a couple stitches, and you… now you’re probably gonna be afraid of me. But I’m not afraid of you, Winter. How can I be afraid of someone who’s as messed up as me? I thought that was such a bad thing. I don’t know any more. Maybe it’s okay to be… broken. Maybe we can just both be broken. All of us.”

He fell silent again, knowing he was rambling. His eyes felt heavy. A warm furry body pressed against his shoulder, and he looped his bad arm around Tess’s neck, letting his cast hang down. She responded by flopping beside him, and putting her chin in his lap.

“Maybe we can start over, Winter.” He closed his eyes, pulling up the hood of the coat, so he could rest his head against the metal bars. “Maybe I should stop being afraid of blowing my second chance, and just be grateful I have one.”

He opened his eyes, turned to stare into those dark eyes with the moon flecks. “If you’ll give me one. Will you? Will you give me another chance?”

Winter stared back, unblinking.

**

He had the coffee brewed in the office when Nick walked in.

The man didn’t really say anything; he had become as accustomed to Steve’s sleepless nights as his mother and aunt and uncle, even if they were infrequent these days. Some part of Steve recognized the way Nick took the coffee and the chair, and put his feet up on the desk with nothing beyond a brief greeting. Recognized it as the way his dad would respond if he were here.

It was the first chance Steve had really had to talk to Nick about Winter and everything that had happened, and he had even more thoughts now, which he hadn’t thought possible. The caffeine had helped dispel the lingering exhaustion., and other than sipping his coffee and scratching Tess’s ears, Nick did not move until Steve ran out of words. Finally, he got up to refill his mug, and Steve sighed, spoke to his back.

“You think it’s all crazy.”

Nick turned away, walked to the doorway, turned, leaned against the frame.

“I didn’t get to see your little… show the other day. But from what Sharon told me…” He shrugged, took a swig. “I’ve never seen anything like this horse, like Winter. So, you can probably bet that whatever was done to him, and how it’s affected him, is outside of anything we’ve seen done. Which means of course that whatever we do to help him will have to be different from ‘normal’.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Steve sighed, leaned back, picking absently at his cast. “But… where do I start?”

“Well, you’re back at square one. What worked there? What was the first thing that worked?”

“Talking to him.” Steve sighed. “I just did that for several hours out there. I told you that. I guess I just… wish I had some idea of where to go next.”

“You know what your dad always said. ‘Listen to the horse’. Maybe you just need to let _him_ tell you.”

A moment’s silence, Steve thoughtfully turning over Nick’s words.

“The thing is,” Nick said slowly, now not looking at Steve, “what will make the biggest difference, will be how much you care. And I know you care an awful lot about that horse.”

Steve gave a little laugh. “And I don’t even know why. Exactly. I just… I want to see him… happy and… healthy and… free. From the fear.” He was staring up at the pictures on the wall as he finished.

“No matter… what that looks like?”

There was something careful, but heavy in Nick’s tone. Slowly, Steve looked back at him, and in the silence, he understood the unspoken.

_“Even if you can’t do anything for him? And all you can do is put a bullet in his head, to set him free for good?”_

“Because,” Nick finished aloud. “I am not letting you throw your life away for one single horse. Is that clear?”

Steve looked at him with a steady tiredness. “Thank you.”

Something seemed to soften in Nick’s face, and he turned away. “What are you thanking me for?” he asked, before he downed the last of his mug.

“Looking out for me. Since my dad isn't here to say it.”

Nick gave him one sharp glance, before he set his mug down, and jammed his hat on his head. “I made a promise, Cap,” he growled over his shoulder, before he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted:  
> 'Rise Up' originally by Andra Day, but I like Angelica Hale best. And Geoff Mull.


	9. Turning Leaves

“So, the idea is to just talk to him, then.” Sharon peered over Valkyrie’s broad back with its pronounced sway, not pausing in her brushing.

Steve was fumbling a comb left-handed through the old mare’s mane, and sighed, not meeting his girlfriend’s gaze. “Does it sound stupid?”

“No!”

Sharon groaned, gave Steve a frown. “You need to stop with this doubting yourself. You are absolutely right. After all, the whole point of join-up is to establish dominance in a natural way for the horse. But that’s not what he needs. That just makes him feel threatened. So, we need to prove that we aren’t threatening. We need to prove we can be trusted. And obviously the more time we spend not pushing him, the easier it will be for him.”

“He doesn’t need to be told to follow,” Steve said softly. “He just needs someone he can trust to lead.”

Sharon’s smile was… proud. “There you go,” she said.

Steve ducked his head in against Val’s neck, closed his eyes, breathed in her smell. _But how can talking prove that he can trust me?_

 _Just by being there,_ was the answer. _Being gentle, and most of all, letting him make the choice, of whether to approach of not. Whatever happens, it needs to be his choice._

_Just please, God, don’t let me hurt him again._

It took him another minute of combing out Val’s mane to realize he had actually prayed.

**

The following week made Steve almost thankful he had a broken arm. It meant he had more free time than usual. Oh, he still put in his share of work, helping Sam work with the two paying horses they had and taking on more of the office work. But it meant he had lots of time to stop by the corral, lean on the fence, and chat with Winter.

He still hadn’t attempted to go back into the pen, but he definitely wanted to at least get back to doing this with no walls in between them.

He also started bringing apples around in his pocket, slicing them up with his knife and tossing chunks into Winter’s hay pile. That was an eyeopener. Winter _loved_ apples, way more than carrots. He would hunt all through the hay, scattering it all over the place to find a piece of apple that had fallen inside. It made Steve laugh.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but he liked to think that Winter liked to hear him laugh.

It was mid-October now, the leaves falling, bare tree branches whipping in cold winds. And there was no more ignoring the sadness that came with those winds. It was the morning of the 15th when he stood by the fence and rested his head against the bars, and wondered what to say.

“I’ll tell her about you,” he called softly, Winter watching him quietly, alert, but not tense. “I’ll tell both of them.”

Last year all three of them had gone together, but somehow, Steve felt a need for solitude today. After breakfast, he hesitated before he reached for his hat and jacket. He glanced over his shoulder at his aunt and uncle. George Barnes gave him a soft smile.

“I’m going now,” Steve said, not needing to add where.

“We’ll see you later,” Uncle George said, nodding. “You can tell them at the flower shop that we’ll be in later.”

Steve nodded, turned away.

He drove into town with Tess sitting in the backseat, and the radio off. Whatever was going to happen in his head or his heart, he didn’t want to just bottle it up and ignore it. He found himself thinking of the long drives to Spokane for the cancer treatments, talking, listening to Narnia books and _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ , his mother sleeping on the way home.

vanDyne’s Blossoms and Blooms was on the main drag and Steve was fortunate to nail a parking spot right in front. He was glad to see Hope alone at the front counter. She knew him well enough to greet him with a smile, and also to know why he was here, placing an order for 3 pink roses and 3 yellow, loose. No pesky questions, just her humming with the country station as she gathered the flowers, her long black ponytail swinging over her shoulder.

“My mom always said you were better at flowers than anyone on either side of the Rockies.”

She looked up, startled, before she was smiling. “Your mom was a dear.” Nothing more, nothing less, and Steve found he could smile back at her as he took the flowers.

“My aunt and uncle will probably come in later.”

“Roger that.”

There was no one else parked at the little cemetery, and Steve took his time, gathering himself, before he stepped out into the warm sunshine, cold wind, Tess at his side.

Theirs was a shared stone, and he stood for a moment staring down at it.

“Hey, guys.”

He sat cross-legged, laid the yellow flowers beneath his father’s name, the pink under his mother’s.

He was silent for a time. Tess sighed, lay beside him; he rested his hand on her warm back.

_They danced in the kitchen, Dad holding Mom’s waist, both of them laughing and singing with the music, “When I start to sing the blues, you pull out my dancing shoes. I think you could be so good for me…”_

_He was standing in the barn doorway, staring at the colt Nick held. The little guy kept trying to eat the ribbon around his neck, but stopped to stare back at Steve. His parents’ hands on his shoulders, and he twisted his head to stare up at them. “He’s mine?”_

_Dad squinting in the sunshine. Dad frowning over a prospective science experiment, glasses slipping to the end of his nose._

_Mom on her knees in the garden. Mom with a feed sack under each arm. Mom at his graduation, smiling at him as he danced with her for the last time. Mom sitting beside him, right here in this place._

When he opened his eyes, he tilted his head back to let the breeze dry his face.

“Um, God, I hope you’ll let her—them—hear all this. Please and thank you.

“I… think we’re doing ok, Mom. Not every day, but I think more days than not. I haven’t been here since my birthday, I guess. So… not a whole lot’s changed. We had a good summer, good hay crop, that was a relief. Not as many horses as I would have liked, but I think the bottom line will be okay this year. We’ll see. You know I’m trying.

“If you can see my cast, you’re probably thinking something like, ‘Not hard enough’. But I hope not. I just… made a mistake, Mom. You always told me not to be afraid of mistakes. Because every mistake is a gift in its own way. I wish you could see Winter, help me with him. I think you’d like him. I know I do.

“Sharon and Sam are both good. And don’t ask if we’re engaged yet.” He couldn’t hold back a little smile. He knew his parents had always liked the idea of him and Sharon getting married. These days it kinda hurt to think about, because now neither of his parents would be there for the wedding.

“Sam’s such a solid guy, I know you were glad I had him for a friend, Mom. They’ve both been great, helping me with Winter. He’s different from any horse I’ve ever met, you know. He reads like a trip to hell and back. And he still carries a lot of that with him. But maybe I can help him. I don’t know if I can. But I’m going to try.”

Silence again.

“Nick’s good too. So are Uncle George and Aunt Winnie. Oh, and Sam’s thinking of spending a couple more years working before he decides between university or the army. So, we’ll have him for that much longer anyway. We’ll make a rancher out of that city boy yet.”

Steve sighed, pulled up grass, shredding it in his fingers. “Funny, I feel like I don’t actually have a whole lot to talk about. I’ve talked over most of it with Winter. Most of anything and everything. He’s a good listener.

“Hope you don’t mind. That I’m talking to the living more than the dead.” A small chuckle.

“Of course, I know that you are alive. More alive there than you ever were here. And I’ll see you again.”

A long breath, rising to his knees, hands resting on the cold arch. “You guys are probably still praying for me, since you can talk to God directly up there. Keep it up. It might be working.”

Warm lips pressed to smooth stone. “Love you always. Mom. Dad.”

Tess gave a little bark, as he turned away. He recognized the dark-skinned man with the eyepatch, standing off to the side under a half-naked oak. His hug for Steve was warm, before he laid down his own flowers, stepped back.

They didn’t need to talk.

**

It was probably thinking about his mom that had Steve grabbing the worn copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ from his bookcase, stuffing a couple apples in his coat pocket, and wandering off to Winter’s corral after supper. At the last minute, he diverted to the barn, where he ignored the questioning nickers of the horses inside, and grabbed a slice from a small square bale.

“Hey, Winter,” he called. “Brought you a little something extra.”

He ignored the way his heart beat against his ribs, and walked to the gate, undid the chain, slipped inside. He made sure Winter could see the hay, before he hefted it to join the remains of the horse's supper in the middle of the circle of sand. Steve deliberately turned his back as he latched the gate with his good hand.

When he turned back, taking slow steady breaths, Winter was frozen watching him. He hadn’t even glanced at the hay.

“Brought a book with me today. I think you’ll like it. My mom did. I brought apples too.”

For some reason, Steve found himself silent before that gaze, the intense uncertainty of it. Instinctively, he sat, sliding down the fence the way he always did, albeit on the other side. Every move slow and smooth as he could make it, he crossed his legs, pulled his dad’s old parka over his knees, caught his breath.

“Still scared of me now, Winter?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Still no change.

Steve noted the nervous twitch as he pulled out the book, and an apple, noted the ear movement as he opened his knife, cut a slice, ate it.

He cut off another piece, and, with a flick of his wrist, sent it spinning into Winter’s hay.

He saw Winter’s nostrils flare, testing the air.

“Unless you ask me to,” Steve said low, “I don’t want to leave. I promise I won’t try to get any closer. Just please don’t make me leave.”

Another long minute of them just watching each other.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Steve felt an inexplicable warmth flooding his chest, even as he bent his head, opened the cover, began to read.

_“Chapter One. A Long-Expected Party. When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.”_

Winter was a statue for most of the half-hour or so Steve sat there, only his ears flicking as Steve turned the pages, or tossed more apple slices his way. But for Steve it was the most he had hoped for. When he finally slipped out, he paused to watch Winter dive into his hay pile, snatching up apple chunks.

“G’night, Winter,” he called. “I promise the story will get more exciting.”

Winter snorted.

Steve was smiling as he walked back up to his house where Tess waited on the porch, where the warm lights glowed, and Aunt Winnie was putting away dishes, and Uncle George was reading his Bible, and he knew the story wasn't over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted:  
> "Good For Me" by Amy Grant
> 
> Comments are an especial encouragement. Thanks for reading!


	10. Overflow of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the week I missed. I was really struggling to focus on my writing and getting stressed out. But I'm back.  
> This chapter is a prime example of how this little story has taken on its own life. I suppose I should say: some discussion of suicide and suicidal thoughts. But you know me, hope always wins out in the end.

Evening sun somewhere around the horizon, behind the clouds. Winter with his nose buried in his grain tub, eating. Cold air in Steve’s lungs.

He was smiling as he latched the gate and turned away, feeling Winter’s eyes still following him. 

Sam was stacking buckets in the feed room, ready to leave. Head down, knitted cap pulled well over his ears, he had hardly spoken all day. A heaviness hung in the line of his shoulders, the set of his mouth.

Steve moved into the space, plunking the grain scoop he had carried down on a shelf, grabbing a broom one-handed to sweep up some bits of spilled feed. He hummed a bit, putting things back in their places, following Sam out the door, shutting the light off.

They stood for a moment in the barn aisle, only half the lights on, horses munching, nosing in feeders. With a little sigh, Steve reached to grasp Sam’s shoulder, felt his friend stiffen, but he squeezed once firmly, before he let go.

“You’re off tomorrow then?”

A nod from Sam, keys jingling as he pulled them from his pocket. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Sure you don’t want to join us for supper?” They walked from the barn, and Steve pulled the half-door shut behind him. He would do night checks after supper, after reading to Winter.

“I’m sure. I’ll get it at home tonight.” He headed for his car, tossing a, “Night,” over his shoulder. Steve watched him go, watched till the taillights vanished down the drive.

There was less anger in him this year, Steve thought, as he headed for the house. Uncle George, coming from the machine shed, joined him partway.

“The hydraulics on the plow blade are gonna need a little work. Hoses probably need replacing. I’ll try to pick some stuff up in town tomorrow.”

Steve nodded. “How much will that cost?”

Uncle George shrugged. “Enough.”

“Sam’s in Boise tomorrow, so we’re not paying him.”

“Oh, yeah.” They stepped into the warm house, Tess there to greet Steve. “Visiting his friend’s family again?”

“Hey, you,” Steve murmured, scratching her ears, before he hung up his hat and answered his uncle. “Yeah.”

This would be the third time Sam spent the anniversary of the day Riley died with his friend’s family. That was all Steve knew, that was all Steve needed to know.

“Saw you taking grain to Winter,” Aunt Winnie said to Steve, as she came to kiss her husband.

“Yeah.” Steve headed for the bathroom to wash his hands. “He let me get within ten feet of him. And then he started eating before I even latched the gate!”

But as good as he felt about Winter, and a delicious supper of Aunt Winnie’s meat loaf, Steve found himself lying awake in bed, listening to Tessa snore from her spot in the crook of his legs. Finally, he huffed a sigh, reached for his phone on the nightstand.

He took his time figuring out what to say.

**I’m here, man.**

**Don’t forget that.**

**If you need me, please ask.**

**You know what I mean.**

His eyes were beginning to close when his phone screen lit up with a reply.

**I know.**

**Go to sleep you idiot.**

**Right back atcha.**

Steve fell asleep partway through a short prayer for his friend.

**

The next day was a fair one, warm sun in a blue sky, and Steve was stripped to his shirtsleeves by lunch. He was pleased by how well he could manage with his cast, but still counted the days till he got the blasted thing taken off. Well, okay, _maybe_ ‘blessed thing’? Blessing in disguise? It did seem that he’d needed it to help him change his way of seeing things with Winter.

It was also a quiet day. Nick had gone over to the Carters to help move cattle, and Aunt Winnie headed into town to meet with some friends after lunch; he knew she would be having supper with them.

All the horses were turned out and stalls were done, so Steve took himself off to Winter’s corral for much of the afternoon. He didn’t just read (they had reached Rivendell, and Winter seemed to think the story was not boring after all); he also brought his best saddle out and sat on an overturned bucket outside the corral to oil it down, humming and talking and pretending to ignore Winter’s tension at the sight.

With all that extra time spent on Winter, Steve headed out that evening planning to read only for 10 or 15 minutes. Uncle George was going to bed early, worn out from a long day in which he’d had three different deliveries to the store go completely wrong, and then been forced to fire a girl who had not only turned up late for the nth time, but also stoned to the max.

Steve had shooed him away from their meager dishes and rinsed up by himself. Then Aunt Winnie had come in, and Steve had helped her bring in a couple shopping bags. So, he was a good bit later than usual, by the time he made tracks to the corrals, Tess following him closely tonight.

He hoped Winter wouldn’t have already started his nightly run, which Steve wouldn’t interrupt for the world.

They came around the corner of the office, and Tessa stiffened, sniffed several times, and made an inquiring growl, before she ran ahead. There was enough starlight for Steve to make out the shape of someone sitting on the ground by Winter’s corral, but he knew, or at least guessed, and he didn’t hurry.

“Had my folks drop me off.” Sam kept his head down, hands busy rubbing Tess’s sides, as she wriggled all over with happiness.

Steve glanced over at Winter who watched them, ears pricked, alert but not suspicious. “Come in with me,” he said, putting his hand on the chain, lifting the latch.

Sam went still, and Steve could feel his stare. “Are you… sure?”

“As good a time as any,” he answered.

Winter went quite still, watching as the two young men and one dog slipped in the gate. “Hey, Winter,” Steve called softly. “We won’t be too long tonight. And before you ask, yes, I brought apples.”

Steve could feel his friend’s weariness as Sam slumped against the fence beside him, closed his eyes, whispered something that may have been a prayer. Steve quietly handed the apple and knife to him, opened the book.

Sam moved slowly, slicing up the apple, tossing the chunks Winter’s way. Slowly the tension bled out of Winter’s neck and shoulders, and he went after them, snorting a little in a way that almost made Steve smile. Finally, the conversation was going both ways.

He read slower than usual, and more to himself, working his way through the Council of Elrond, keeping half an eye on Sam, who finished with the fruit and sat, eyes closed again, tapping the blade of Steve’s knife against his knee.

_“‘…For Isildur did not march away straight from the war in Mordor as some have told the tale.’_

_“‘Some in the north, maybe,’ Boromir broke in. ‘All know in Gondor that he went first to Minas Anor and dwelt a while with his nephew Meneldil, instructing him, before he committed to him the rule of the South Kingdom. In that time he planted there the last sapling of the White Tree in memory of his brother.’”_

At those words Sam stirred, and Steve thought he saw a faint smile cross his face. Acting on some instinct, Steve quietly marked his place, and closed the book. “Sorry, Winter,” he called. “My voice is getting tired.”

He absently reached to stroke Tessa; she sat between them, head in Sam’s lap.

“I don’t want to die.”

Steve paused, looked up, blinking. “What?” He noted the way Sam was holding Steve’s knife in both hands, staring at it, running his thumb over the edge of the blade.

A moment’s hesitation this time. “I don’t want to die… anymore.” He closed the knife with a snap, before chucking it sideways at Steve.

Steve turned his hand automatically to catch the knife, felt its warmth from Sam’s palm. He was saved from speaking by Sam.

“Every time I would try, he stopped me. Or, I guess God did. But it was Riley’s voice. I’d… hear him. In my head.”

A slow breath. “And then today, I didn’t feel any of that. I just… heard him. If that makes any sense,” he added.

“Actually, it does.” Steve found it hard to speak. He was pretty sure he was just supposed to listen.

“And I guess I figured I should tell you. Because it wasn’t just him who saved me. It was you too.”

Steve’s heart did something funny, and he had to take an extra breath.

“Last year after we got back from seeing them, it was the next morning, and I was sitting on my bed with my knife and I… I was gonna do it. And then you texted me, because I was late for work. Actually, I was really mad at you for that, ‘cause I didn’t want to get interrupted, I didn’t want to get stopped. But you kept texting me, and…” A gusty sigh. “We went riding up to the falls.”

Steve knew they were both staring at Winter, rather than each other. He felt like there was a golf ball stuck in his throat. Oh, sure maybe he had sometimes worried, a little. But he had never truly guessed…

“I guess I owe you an apology for that.” Sam shivered, pulled his knees up to wrap his arms around them. “It’s… so stupid I know, to… miss someone that bad–”

“No.”

Steve’s voice came out creaky, and he swallowed, twisting his head to stare at Sam. “Missing someone is not stupid. You can be stupid _about_ it, I guess, but missing someone is not stupid. It means they mattered to you. It means they were important.”

Sam made a little noise in his throat; tears threatening.

“It was worse right after… after Riley died. They made me see a counselor, but I just kept my mouth shut. And then I met you guys and I got Falcon and I started working, and it was… I could forget.

“Not forget _him_. Just forget… to compare. To compare the before and after. Because after can never be like before. But it can… _be_. Be something. Even something good. And then this day would come around. And I would get scared. Scared that I was forgetting. So I would make myself remember everything about that day. About how he died.” A long quivering breath.

Silently Steve rested one hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“And it would hurt. Hurt so bad I didn’t know what to do. Hurt so bad I wanted to die. But I didn’t.” Sam exhaled, shook his head, sniffed. When he glanced over, Steve saw the starlight gleam on his cheeks.

“I know I don’t wanna die. I know I can… make it through this, but, man–” a flash of his teeth in a broken sort of smile “–does it ever get easier?”

Steve found himself swallowing hard. He let out a sigh, slowly straightened his legs out. Winter stayed quiet, watching them.

“My mom told me, after my dad died… she said something like, ‘Some things in life are like little cuts. It happens, it hurts, it heals. Other times, it heals, and it scars. The pain goes away, but you keep the scar. But losing someone who is a big part of your life—family, a friend, anyone you love—that’s like… like losing a limb.’ She said, ‘It’s like losing your arm. It takes a lot longer to heal. And nothing can ever be the same.’”

He glanced at Sam, squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, man. It does get easier. But,” he bit his lip. “It’ll only heal if you let it. It’ll only heal if you stop picking that scab open.”

Another gusty sigh from Sam, and he wiped his nose with the back of one hand. This time the smile had a touch of something near… maybe not happiness, but relief? “I guess that’s basically what I realized today. I realized… remembering how he died, is not the same thing as remembering him.” A wet sort of laugh.

“You know what the last thing he said to me was? He said my name, and then, then he said, ‘It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.’ Dude is _dying,_ bleeding out in my arms, and he knows it, and he–” A sob heaved Sam’s body. “He’s thinkin’ bout _me.”_

Steve rested his hand on the back of Sam’s neck, closed his eyes. He remembered watching his dad crumple in the barn doorway, running to him, kneeling beside him and grabbing his hand, the way his dad had looked at him. Those had been some of Joseph Rogers’s last words. Even with the pain and fear raging in his eyes, he had told his son, _“It’s okay.”_

It took Sam a minute to get control, to find the room to breathe. He wiped his coat sleeve across his face “But that… that’s what I want to remember. That’s _all_ I want to remember. Cause that’s Riley. Not what happened to him. You know?”

There was a short silence, except for Tess licking away Sam’s tears; he looped an arm around her neck, the three of them keeping each other warm.

“Yeah,” Steve finally said. “I mean, I know what you mean. But I didn’t know Riley so… But you know, if you tell me more about him, then I can remember him too.”

This time the smile in the dark was a full one, if a little shy. “That, I can do.”

Steve took a long breath, squeezed Sam’s shoulder once more, noted the shiver running through his friend, and slowly stood.

“Hey, we should probably get inside, temp’s dropping again. You can sleep here tonight.”

Sam looked up at him for a moment, then merely said, “Thanks.”

Steve put his hand out, and Sam clasped it, let Steve haul him up and into a hug. “I’m really glad you’re here, man,” Steve mumbled into his shoulder.

Sam’s grip tightened for a moment, before he pulled back. “Oh, now, don’t get mushy on me, man.”

“Dude, you started it.”

“You encouraged me.”

Steve shook his head. “I can just hear what Sharon would say.”

 _“Guys are so weird,”_ they chorused.

Laughter, floating on the night air. Winter tossing his head, spinning on his haunches, and leaping a few strides away, before he turned back.

Steve had to remind himself to breathe, as Winter pranced on the spot, eyeing them and shaking his mane.

“Whoa,” Sam whispered next to him.

The significance of the moment was not lost on either of them; it was the first time Winter had voluntarily turned away from someone, and there was no fear, no suspicion, only a kind of impatience. “I think,” Steve managed, “he wants to get on with his nightly run.”

“Okay, big guy,” Sam called softly, as he followed Steve to the gate. “Thanks for listening, and we’ll get out of your hair now.”

They walked away, across the dark yard, listening to the sound of Winter’s gallop.

“I guess there’s one thing,” Sam mused aloud, “about pain. It means you’re still alive. Like Winter chose the pain, rather than give up.”

Steve paused at the corner of the office to glance back at the beautiful shadow, flying through the night. “Yeah. But I don’t want him to think that’s all there is. Healing means you’re alive too.”

**

“Guest room or floor?” Steve asked as they tiptoed upstairs after a (substantial) snack.

Sam hesitated, before he muttered, “Floor. Got used to that spending nights at Ri’s,” he added.

“Cool. There’s a futon under my bed. That probably means Tess will sleep on you though.”

“I’d be honoured.”

Steve lay awake for a long time, listening to Sam breathe. He’d been friends with him for well over two years, and only now did he realize just how little Sam had ever shared about himself. He liked a joke, and of course they _talked_. They talked about horses, they talked about sports, they talked about work, they talked about how Steve was doing… Sure Steve had learned his quirks, his triggers and boundaries, but that was mostly from things his family said, or just reading Sam’s actions.

Before now, he’d never heard Sam be as open and honest as _that._

He closed his eyes, inhaled long and slow. With all he had lost, suicide was never something Steve had considered. Maybe it was the never-die rancher blood in his veins, or maybe it was the people he’d always had backing him. Losing his dad and Buck in one blow had been the worst; with his mom, he’d had time to… prepare, as much as anyone can.

His heart ached for Sam, even as he marveled at his bravery. And not just for surviving everything he had, but also in telling Steve about it.

Sam had never said much about Riley, but Steve knew enough about their friendship from Mrs. Wilson. Riley had been Sam’s best friend since 1st grade. As neighbours they’d been able to spend a lot of time together. They’d gotten even closer when Sam’s big brother Simon started getting addicted to alcohol and drugs in high school. Often Sam would escape the chaos of his own home at Riley’s.

Sam wasn’t even supposed to move with his parents. He was going to live with Riley’s family and finish school with him, and then their plan was to join the military. But in the blink of an eye all that had fallen through the floor, leaving Sam to try to pick up the pieces. Even Sam’s girlfriend had dumped him.

It was probably a lot like how Steve would have felt if Buck was a person. Steve had never been so close, so in tune with a horse before or since. His mom had always called them ‘the Dynamic Duo’. The sturdy bay quarter horse/mustang mix had been given to Steve when he was just a foal, and Steve had spent hours and hours hanging out with him and talking. Even as they both got older, Steve would always run to Buck to talk about everything, and nothing helped him feel better or closer to God than a good hard run up to the ridge with Buck.

He found himself wishing something he hadn’t wished in a while. If only he could go to Buck now. To talk to him about all the thoughts running through his head, the guilt, the pain, the crazy truth that that day he had been so worried about Sam not showing up for work, Sam had been… He had been inches from losing his friend and he hadn’t even known it. But he had texted Sam, and Sam had put down the knife and come for a ride, and… they were still here.

 _Thank You._ A lump filled Steve’s throat, and he took a deep breath, let it out slow. _Thank You, God._

In the same night both Sam and Winter had let down their guards, let Steve in to a place they hadn’t before.

Wrapped in the friendly darkness, Steve let himself cry, and Tessa came to nuzzle his face and curl up against his chest. He buried his face in her warmth and softness, felt the ache inside him ease.

When the tears stopped, he found his breathing slipping into the same steady rhythm as Sam’s.

By the time the grandfather clock in the living room struck one, even Winter was asleep, all of them gathering strength for another day.


	11. A Touch of Softness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay here's a healthy dose of Staron! Sorry, again, that I am so late. :(

It was hard and it was easy for Steve to keep his distance and his patience with Winter.

It was hard because he still wanted so badly to be able to lay his hands on Winter’s neck, to groom him and (hopefully, eventually, please God) ride him.

The reminder of the cast made it easy. But more than that was the shift he felt between them. It had started that night when Steve had come to him in the moonlight and sung him down from whatever ledge he had teetered on. He had called and Winter had answered. Or had Winter called, and he answered? Either way, they had reached out to each other, and had not been refused. Different from the first desperate connection they had formed at the auction, this was not Steve saving Winter. This was them saving each other.

Weeks bled into a month and Steve got his cast off. Normally things would be winding down as winter closed in, but in the middle of November Steve got two training requests, for a total of three horses, and no way could he refuse that.

He did his best to still carve out that time for Winter, though, and he got his rewards. Winter’s edges became softer, his fears less pronounced, and Steve found that he often forgot about the scars, seeing only the curiosity growing in his eyes, the way his ears followed the tone of Steve’s voice. It was the week before Thanksgiving that Steve was greeted by a low, throaty sound from Winter as he unlatched the gate to bring him his morning grain and hay. He stood there for a long minute, warmth exploding inside him.

As he headed back to the barn, he pulled his phone out to call her; this warranted more than a text.

“He nickered at me!”

Cows bawling in the background, and a quick laugh from Sharon. “You’re calling me in the middle of morning feeds to tell me that?”

There was just enough exasperation in her voice to give Steve pause. “Sorry, is this a bad time?”

“No! Just– Hang on.” He guessed she shoved her phone into her pocket, before there were muffled shouts and the rumble of an engine, mixing with the cow noises. They must have been putting out silage and grain for the recent weanlings.

“Hey, you seen the other-?”

“Feed scoop?” Steve handed it over and Nick raised his eyebrows.

“Who you talkin’ to?”

“Sharon. I’ll take Val’s.” He grabbed the brown bucket labelled with the old mare’s name in his free hand, and headed down the barn aisle.

“Sorry,” came Sharon’s voice, a sharp sigh.

“Is everything okay?” Steve hooked his arm through the bucket handle so he could undo the latch on Valkyrie’s stall.

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.” Val nosed him and the bucket, and he tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder to use both hands to empty the feed into the corner manger.

The slam of a truck door, jingle of keys, engine turning over. A long sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Just… letting everything get to me, I guess. You know it’s my parents’ anniversary, so they’re going away tomorrow and they won’t be back till the day before Thanksgiving, and then we’ve got all the family coming here this year, of _course_.” She was driving now.

“You know I’ll help all I can.” Even with his attention on the phone call, he made sure to properly latch Val’s door again.

“I do know. Oh, and the dishwasher in the bunkhouse got busted last night, and our three-year-old probably has foot rot.”

“Gordon?”

“No, Henry. Everyone else is fine, no idea how he got this. It’s a front foot.”

Steve frowned. “Um, that's... concerning.”

“No kidding. Not to mention the vet bills for this. But it’s that or buy a new bull and he has the genes we want. But in the long run, a new bull would probably be cheaper, but we weren’t planning on _that_ until we retired Thomas.”

Steve could almost hear how fast Sharon was trying to think, how many things she was running over in her head, even though she was sitting still.

“You sound like you need a day off. With me.”

Laughter. “You and I both know we don’t have time.” But Sharon’s sigh was wistful.

Steve grabbed another feed bucket, checked the name: Solly, one of the newbies. “Maybe after Thanksgiving.”

“You realise we sound like we’re already married with kids.” Sharon parked the truck; he heard the engine die, the door slam, wind noises.

Now he was the one laughing, the horses turning their heads.

“Glad I could make you happy,” and there was a smile her voice now. “Now I’m really sorry, I gotta go.”

“You always make me happy,” Steve answered. “And don’t forget to breathe.”

They both stopped walking at the same moment, something he was used to, in tune with.

“Love you forever.”

His heart was full as he answered. “Love you for always.”

**

The Saturday after the holiday, Steve was finishing chores, grooming down a big black filly he had nicknamed Traffie, short for Trafalgar. She was simply getting broke to ride, and Steve was pleased with her progress.

Sam, passing by, accidentally trod on one of the barn cats, whose yowl made several horses start and shy in their stalls. Traffie just looked startled, and followed the cat’s flight into the feed room with her eyes.

“Sorry, Mittens,” Sam called after him, then nodded at Traffie. “She’s pretty chill for green-broke.”

“Yeah.”

Steve’s phone chimed, and he paused his brushing. A text from Sharon: **Hey, everything okay with you?**

It took him a moment to realize that he hadn’t texted her once that day, highly unusual. **Yeah, sorry. Been busy.**

 **Aren’t we all** , was her reply.

He furrowed his brow, finding a touch of frustration in those words. She’d been pushing herself so hard, running the ranch on her own, and still coming over to help Steve every other day. It only took him another minute’s thought before he hit ‘call’.

“Nothing fancy,” he said, cutting off her greeting. “Just clean things. I am taking you out tonight and will be there in…” a quick check of the time, “an hour. I need to shower myself.”

Silence, before she gave a small laugh. “Did it occur to you I might have something going on?”

“Yeah, but it’s sure to be something you can drop for a movie and a late eat out.”

“Well,” and now he could hear her smiling. “I doubt it will kill my folks to find something for themselves tonight. I’ll make my famous meatballs and spaghetti tomorrow. And invite you over,” she added, hearing Steve’s noise of appreciation.

The rest of Traffie’s grooming went so quickly she gave Steve several reproachful glances. “Sorry,” Steve said, patting her on the shoulder before he unclipped the crossties and led her to her stall. “Aunt Winnie?” he called as he latched the door, and hung up the filly’s halter.

“Yes?” She put her head out of the tack room door.

“Can you cover for me? I have to get cleaned up.”

Her smile was happily surprised. “Oh? What, got a date tonight?”

“Yeah.” He grinned at the way she raised her eyebrows, feeling a bit of heat in his cheeks.

“Of course. You two haven’t gone out in forever.” She made a shooing motion with one hand. “Go.”

“Thanks, Auntie,” Steve fired over his shoulder.

Sharon was sitting on her front step, waiting in the dusk. He pulled up, rolled his window down. “Hey, pretty lady. Waiting for the boy next door?”

She laughed and stood, her hair down, spilling over the shoulders of her coat. “No, I’m waiting for the neighbour _man.”_ And he said nothing more, just jumped down from the cab to kiss her and hold her close like he hadn’t had the chance to in what felt like ages.

They drove to the movie theatre singing along with the Hunter Brothers:

_When we danced on the edge of the silhouette sky_

_And we painted our dreams in the sand_

_When we shouted forever like we’d never die_

_Those were the nights_

They did McDonald’s for their late supper. He asked if she was sure, and she laughed, linked her arm with his, kissed his cheek. “Please. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve had a hankering for it.”

It was their general policy not to talk about work stuff on a date night, but after discussing the movie and engaging in a debate about men’s facial hair that had them both laughing way too loud, it was Sharon who brought up Winter.

“How’s he doing? I’ve hardly had a chance to see him. Anything new?”

Steve couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “Well, not anything big I guess, but he’s gotten so much calmer, way more chill about me doing stuff around him. You know how we were debating about how to make sure he has shelter over the winter, since even if we set up a runway for him to have access to a stall, I really doubt he’d go in it. But I think he might let me at least erect something in the corral. We’ll see. It’s been a pretty mild November. But December’s supposed to get cold.”

“Supposed to be plenty of snow too.” Sharon licked melted cheese off her finger.

“Yeah. Be nice to have a white Christmas.” Steve picked up the last chunk of his burger, set it down again. “He hasn’t had a panic about anything in a few weeks, since he woke me up one night, again. He was doing that pacing thing, again, but I talked him quiet a lot quicker this time.

“One thing I have started doing is like, throwing the chunks of apple I always give him just a little bit closer. To me. I’ve been doing it gradually, you know, hoping he won’t notice that he’s getting closer to me. He did get nervous the one night, when I totally misjudged and it landed only like six feet away. But I just kept reading and he came up and ate it, and then he didn’t move until I got up to leave. I’ve started not bringing apples most nights, but if I show him my empty hands and say ‘sorry’ he totally gets it. He gets a little disappointed at first, but then he settles in for the story. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but I–”

He stopped, uncertain of the words he’d been about to say.

“You think he likes you just as much without the apples,” Sharon finished. Her response to Steve’s surprised face was one of teasing exasperation. “I know you, Steve. Food is a really good incentive, especially to help him associate you with good things. But in the end, you want him to trust you, you want him to want to be with you, simply because of _you._ ”

“Yeah,” Steve murmured, still staring at her. She grinned back, wrinkling her nose in that way she had, and he ducked his chin, before smiling back at her. “Yeah, that.

“Hope he doesn’t hate me too much for skipping out on him,” he added, glancing over at a clock on the back wall. “Not going to have time for more than a goodnight.”

Sharon shrugged, balling up her burger wrappers and pushing her tray aside. “Sometimes that’s all that’s needed.”

They were quiet, holding hands across the table, sipping their sodas, looking out the window at the quiet night street. The only reason people in Fernwood stayed up past 11 was for New Year’s, extra innings, date nights, or emergencies.

“Sharon? Do you… think I spend too much time with Winter?” Steve asked slowly. He felt the strong urge to try to fill the following silence with more words, but he held his tongue, letting her think.

She squeezed his hand, leaned back, tilted her head. Those warm brown eyes, serious and smiling at the same time. “Well, I know it would be nice to see a little more of you. Especially in the evenings. But I’m not mad or upset with you.” Now she sat forward, taking his right hand in both of hers; he added his other hand to the pile.

“He’s special. Winter, I mean. Really special. I want to see him heal as much as you do." A soft smile playing on her lips. "But even more, I just... I love the way he makes you get excited, the way you look so proud of him. Do you know how I’ve prayed for you?” She was choking up now, her grip tightening. “Prayed that you’ll find a special horse again? I love… that he makes you happy.”

Steve looked away, down to their hands, touched his right forearm. “What about when he makes me hurt?”

“That’s life,” she said. She lifted one hand to cup his face, and he looked up again, her palm gentle against his cheek; her eyes were wet, shining. “I don’t want a safe man, I want a brave man. Right now, I get it. He needs you, needs you to show him kindness, to show that the world can be a good place, to show him… how to live again. But eventually, that won’t take so much time. You won’t have to tell him this stuff every single day. He’ll settle in. He’ll find his place with us.”

If Steve knew anything about this girl he had known since they were knee-high to grasshoppers, it was that he should be honest. Oh, he hoped as strongly as she that everything would turn out right, that Winter could become his horse, working alongside him, in tandem. But that little voice of doubt was muttering too loud to be ignored.

“But what if… I can’t do it.” He dropped his gaze to their hands for a moment. “What if I can’t fix him?”

“Then he gets the run of a big pasture, maybe with other horses if he gets along with them, and good food and water and shelter. If nothing else he’ll be safe and free, and of course you’ll still go out to talk to him every chance you get, and he’ll come over and listen and love you as much as he is able.”

“Thank you,” Steve finally whispered. He reached to trace the line of her cheekbone with one finger before slipping his hand into her hair and tilting her head so he could press a kiss to her temple. “For being you,” he mouthed against her warm skin.

He drove her home holding her hand, and then they sat on his tailgate for a little while, watched the stars, breath clouding above their heads.

“You should come and talk to Winter sometimes,” he said suddenly. “Sam does. Especially after that night when he told me about the… you know.” Steve had gotten the okay from Sam before he told Sharon about their friend’s struggle with suicide, but Sam had been fine with it, saying he didn’t really want to have to tell someone else the whole story again. “Winter lets him come in even if I’m not there.”

“Yeah, you did mention that the other week.” She nestled closer to him, rested her head on his shoulder. “Maybe I will.”

It was after 11 when Steve got home. He parked his truck alongside Uncle George’s, between the house and machine shed. He hesitated a moment between house and horse, but even if Winter had been dozing, the truck pulling in would have alerted him. Hands in his pockets, Steve turned to the right.

“Hey, big guy.” Winter’s ears swiveled at the sound of Steve’s soft whisper. “I know it’s late, but I had to take my girl out tonight. We had a great time. She’s so amazing. But I’ve told you that before. Sorry, I’m just here to say goodnight.

“You know, if I’m thankful for anything, it’s this. This life. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, I don’t know if we’ll have happy endings, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to help you as much as I want. But I have her. I have Sam, I have Auntie and Uncle, I have this place. I have you. I’m thankful to God for you, Winter.” He was smiling. “Goodnight, boy.”

As he headed for his warm house and warm bed, the softest of nickers floated after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted in this chapter:  
> 'Those Were the Nights' by the Hunter Brothers.


	12. Cross the Distance

First week of December, Christmas music on the radio, and Steve could smell snow in the air. But first came three or four days of rain, heavy and cold; the kind of damp chill that could settle into Steve’s bones and somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

He and the others had discussed what to do for a shelter for Winter, but the weather forced him and Sam to move quickly. The day the rain started in they used the tractor to haul in one of the portable run-in sheds from one of the pastures, and alter it to suit Winter’s needs. They knocked all the boards out of two sides, leaving only one wall, which they would put toward the prevailing wind, and added extra boards around the bottom frame to weigh it down more.

The real problem had been how to get it into Winter’s corral, in the way that _least_ terrified him. They had finally settled on the simplest: setting the shelter right outside his pen, and then moving the entire corral over several yards, and adding more panels, so the wooden shelter was inside it. It had taken plenty of man-power, and a lot of suspicion from Winter, but that evening when Steve came down in his slicker, rain streaming down his shoulders, he was happy to find Winter flicking his tail and chewing his hay in the pocket of dry space.

Winter watched him splash across the wet sand, watched him sit with his back against one post, maybe five feet between Steve’s boots and Winter’s nose. There was no wind, and Steve pulled out his flashlight and paperback of _Return of the King_ , and read about the ride of the Rohirrim with a warm glow inside his chest.

“What do you think, Winter?” he asked at one point. “Would you follow me into war? Would you stand with me to face the Nazgûl? Or even Sauron himself? Would you trust me there?”

Winter snorted, shaking his mouthful of hay free from the rest of the clump.

Steve laughed. Sometimes he felt that maybe, if this really was all he had with Winter, if this was as far as Winter would trust him, it could be enough. Other times he wished so badly to be able to step to Winter’s side, and swing up, to go for a long gallop across the fields and up onto the ridge.

“I could push you; I could try to force you. To make… some kind of choice. But you know I won’t.” He yawned suddenly. “Somehow, I kinda think that if you can decide to trust me now, by the time we get to a war there’ll be nothing left to say.” He yawned again.

“After all, the war in your head is the worst one, isn’t it? You know, after Crossbones came and everything, I used to get these really horrible dreams.” Steve shuddered. “Not every night, you know, but often enough that I didn’t sleep much at all for about a year after. And a lot of the time when I woke up from the worst ones, I couldn’t tell whether the dream had actually happened or not, I couldn’t tell what was real. But my mom would come and help me, and when I trusted her, trusted her to tell me the truth, she would help me get my feet back on the ground.”

He clicked off the flashlight, and sat looking up at the shape of Winter’s head, his ears pricked toward Steve, until his eyes adjusted enough to find Winter’s. “I still don’t know if horses can actually have nightmares or flashbacks, but I know it’s messy in your head. I know for sure that you can’t actually tell me in English what all they did to you, but I can guess. And you know something. I’m not scared of it. Of you. No matter how messy you are, I can handle it."

He gulped suddenly, a strange lump in his throat. “I know you can’t really understand me,” he murmured. “I wish you could, I really _really_ wish you could. But I guess it helps _me_ , at least, to say it out loud.”

Winter was snuffling around for last scraps of hay, occasionally turning his head at things Steve couldn’t hear over the rain. It was just the two of them out here; Tess had taken barely 30 seconds to do her business and bolted back for the front door. She was probably curled up on the dog bed in the kitchen, waiting for him to come back in.

“Well, big guy,” Steve sighed. “I should probably finish the chapter, and then head in.”

He was reading about how the morning came and Théoden’s charge at the head of his army, when he felt Winter moving closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Winter’s lips snag a piece of hay, maybe two feet to the left of Steve’s legs.

He kept reading, even though his voice gave a traitorous shake when Winter, ever so slowly extended his neck to sniff at Steve’s jeans.

_“…For morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removed, and the hosts of Mordor wailed, and terror took them, and they fled, and died, and the hoofs of wrath rode over them. And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.”_

Steve’s voice died away, and he sat quite still, staring blindly down at the pages, feeling strong soft lips wuffling over the folds in his jeans. Winter jerked back as Steve cleared his throat, but he forced himself not to look up.

“I know everything is easier when no one’s watching you, especially me,” he muttered. “So should I keep reading, or do you want me to sing or something?” A moment’s silence, before he clicked off the flashlight, and let the book fall closed. “Ok, sing something it is.”

He sang the first Christmas carol that came to mind, his mother’s favourite:

_What child is this, Who laid to rest_

_On Mary’s lap is sleeping?_

_Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,_

_While shepherds watch are keeping?_

He kept his voice soft, singing the words almost as an afterthought, concentrating on the feeling of Winter standing now so close, Steve could feel his nervous uncertainty.

The horse's snort was uncertain, before Steve started in on ‘Silent Night’. He had dropped to basically humming, by the time Winter’s nuzzling found its way to his face.

There was enough light to make out the outline of Winter’s face, no scars visible.

Big, whiskery, yet always gentle lips moving over Steve’s hair, and he closed his eyes, a smile curving his mouth, and the song ended in the middle of a line with a little sigh.

A moment’s silence, before warm, sweet horse breath brushed his cheek.

“Hey, fella,” Steve whispered. “Hey, Winter.”

Winter must have felt Steve’s exhalation as he spoke, because he shifted slightly, blew out another breath. Steve turned his head slightly, inhaling the soft air tasting of grass and horse, and something hopeful, before he breathed back.

Almost automatically, Steve tilted his head forward, resting his forehead against the bridge of the horse’s nose above his muzzle. Horse and man breathed in the moment.

Again, Winter shifted, dropping his head a little more, and Steve corresponded, turning his head so his cheek rested against Winter’s forehead, as Winter’s nose settled into the crook of his arm.

He didn’t even think of moving, except to lean just a little further into the contact, the way Winter’s head fit in against his side. There was rough, still-damp forelock against Steve’s cheek; scarred, warm horse hide. He smelled rain, he smelled Winter, he was tasting salt…

Winter’s big, warm tongue swiping across his cheeks made him laugh through the tears, and the spell began to dissolve. Winter took a step backward, and they both breathed, looking at each other in the grey darkness. Even when Steve got to his feet, Winter stayed about a yard away, just watching.

Steve rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, sniffed. He found the faint gleam of Winter’s eyes, held it. The affection and joy filling his heart made his chest feel as if it might burst. He opened his mouth to speak, but none of the words that came to mind seemed adequate.

Finally, he whispered, “Thanks.” Although he wasn’t just talking to Winter.

**

He woke up the next morning, wondering if it had all just been a beautiful dream. But when he went to give Winter his morning feeds, he ducked out of the rain into the shelter, tossing his armful of hay at Winter’s feet. Winter snatched a mouthful, then stepped toward Steve, nudging the grain bucket with his nose.

“Hey,” Steve laughed, reminding himself to breathe. He dumped the grain on top of the hay, and Winter went after it.

Steve stood for a moment, holding the bucket down at his left side, before he decided to take his own risk. Quietly, talking softly under his breath, making sure Winter was watching him the whole time, Steve went to Winter’s shoulder. He did not lift his hands, just keeping them where Winter could see. With a foot between them, he paused. Winter was eyeing him, even as he ate, with caution, but also curiosity. And he didn’t pull away.

“Yeah, boy? Good grain, huh? You know I’ve been thinking, it’s gonna be fun this year. It’ll be your first Christmas here, and we give all the horses special treats on Christmas morning. You will love that. I wonder if you’ve ever had someone do something nice for you on Christmas before.”

Still chewing, Winter swung his head around and sniffed at Steve’s chest, before blowing in his face. Steve hesitated no longer, taking a last sideways step, and letting his shoulder press against Winter’s.

Winter shivered, but Steve did not pull away. The seconds slipped by, before the horse slowly relaxed, dropped his head to his feed. Steve leaned against Winter’s warm solidness, smelled wet horse, and stared out into the rain.

Neither of them pulled away for a long time.


	13. Colour of Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry in advance. I will try to get out the next chapter ASAP, maybe even before Saturday.

There was no such thing as sleeping in on Christmas morning on a ranch. Steve yawned as he poured his coffee in the kitchen, looking out the window to see if any more snow had fallen (it hadn’t), and watching Nick’s truck pull in. Sharon had texted that she would be a few minutes late because Peg was playing hard to catch; she had added a picture of the bay mare bucking up a cloud of snow.

He glanced into the living room, at the Christmas tree with a smaller than usual stack of presents under it, and felt a pang at the quietness of the house. No, he didn’t regret sending Uncle George and Aunt Winnie packing to New York to spend the holiday with his family there. They definitely deserved the vacation. The three of them planned for a video call before lunch, during which they would open their presents from each other.

But he missed them.

Tess had her nose in her feed dish, chowing down her breakfast, and he glanced over with a little smile. “Hey, gorgeous, you almost done?” She gave a tail-wag in response, looking snazzy with the green and gold ribbon he had twined around her collar.

Sharon rode into the yard just before sunup, her cheerful, “Merry Christmas!” ringing off the barns in the frosty air. Steve stuck his head out of the barn to holler it back, and then happily received a long hug and a sweet Christmas kiss.

“Is Sam coming this aft?” she asked, as they walked with Pegasus into the barn.

“Yep, so if you’re here we can all exchange gifts then, and Nick and I will then haul over to your place for supper.”

“Got a whole extra bird just for you two,” Sharon joked.

She led the horse into the empty stall closest to the front doors, and Steve shut the door behind her.

“We’ll do our best to live up to those expectations,” Steve grinned, before going to fetch a chunk of hay for Peg, while Sharon stripped her tack off.

“Come with me to give Winter treats,” Steve suggested, leaning on the door as he swung it open for her to exit the stall, her arms full of saddle and bridle.

She dumped the saddle against the wall, hung the bridle on a hook, smiled at Steve. “Sure thing.”

The last three weeks had been good with Winter. Progress was slow, but Steve could see it. Sharon had hung out with him a little more, and he had quickly gotten fond of her. He’d even let her touch him, something Sam hadn’t been able to do yet.

“Racist horse,” Sam had groaned.

“I think you mean sexist,” Steve corrected. “Because she’s a girl. If you’re going to call my horse names, at least get them accurate.”

 _“You’re_ a guy,” Sam had pointed out. “A very special guy,” he added, grinning and socking Steve in the shoulder.

“Glad to know someone thinks so,” Steve had retorted. But he secretly treasured the way Winter responded to him like no one else.

Steve could now rub his hands over Winter’s neck and shoulder, scratch his withers, finger-comb his mane, and had even been able to pick up one of his front hooves the day before last. He wasn’t going to push too hard about brushing him yet; no doubt seeing something in Steve’s hand like that would be scary for the horse.

Winter nickered at sight of them, his breath clouding in the clear air, and walked over to grab a mouthful of hay from Sharon’s armful.

“Ok, hungry man,” she laughed, and went to dump it under the shelter. The horse started to follow, but paused when Steve stayed where he was, a few yards inside the gate. Winter eyed Steve questioningly, and Steve grinned. “Hey. I’ve got something special for you this morning.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket, and held it out, keeping his movements slow. Winter pulled his head back, but he didn’t step away. “It’s some of my mom’s Christmas horse cookies. She made them every year. My old horse Buck, he was totally nuts for these. You gotta try them, come on.”

Winter’s nose was already working, and now he was stretching his neck toward Steve’s palm, where a couple of the molasses and apple treats lay, waiting.

“See, I have another one here.” Steve lifted his other hand to his mouth, bit into the cookie. “I’ll check if they’re poisoned, okay? Mmmmm,” he mumbled, closing his eyes for a moment. “Sharon made them this year, by the way.” He opened his eyes again, to give Winter a foody grin. “And they are officially better than the ones I made last year.”

With a light snort, Winter finally stepped forward, and for a moment his nose hovered above Steve’s hand, his eyes on Steve’s. Steve swallowed and stared back, trying to put all his hope and invitation into that stare, and then Winter was eating the cookies.

After chewing over the first one, he inhaled the second, then the other two in Steve’s pocket, and Steve’s half-eaten one.

“So, he likes them?” Sharon grinned, coming over to turn out her own coat pockets.

Steve stood at Winter’s right shoulder, scratching his bare fingers through the thick warm winter coat, listening to Sharon laugh. The world was white with snow, the sky glowed blue between the puffy white clouds, and the sun was up, albeit still on the other side of the horse barn.

The joy pierced Steve’s heart, and for a moment he almost thought he could hear his mom and dad laughing, somewhere beyond the sky. He took his chance then, sliding his arm across Winter’s withers, giving him the slightest of side hugs.

But Winter did not jump away, he merely swung his head around, looking surprised. Steve wanted to laugh at the crumbs on his whiskers, but the lump in his throat stalled that.

“Merry Christmas, buddy,” he managed to say.

As far as he’d come, Winter could still only take so much contact at a time, and after a good fifteen seconds, he sidled away from Steve, eyeing him in that nervously apologetic way he had. Steve laughed now, and the joy leaping inside him seemed to infect Winter because he bolted to run several laps around them, bucking and throwing snow off his feet into the air.

Steve reached for Sharon’s hand, because it was the two of them laughing now.

**

That was a pretty good day. The call with his aunt and uncle was fun, and he and Tess found some down-time to lie on the couch and watch _The Polar Express_ , like he had every Christmas for almost as long as he could remember. He was glad though when Sam’s car came up the driveway, shaking him out of the memories.

As he stepped outside, snapping up his coat, he saw two people getting out of the grey Charger, and recognized the orange and white University of Tennessee jacket. Simon Wilson.

It had been a while since Steve had actually seen Sam’s big brother, but he shook Steve’s hand cordially and smiled. “So, where’s this crazy horse of yours Sammy’s been telling me about?”

“I did not say he was crazy!” Sam instantly protested, giving his brother a hard shove, hard enough to make him stagger.

Simon was a couple inches taller, but a lot skinnier than Sam, and his retaliation was to scoop up some snow and attempt to drop it down Sam’s collar. The resulting snowball fight lasted until Sharon pulled in in a Carter’s farm truck. She broke it up by pretending to run them all over. Even Tess was running around barking.

When they had all gotten their breath back, Steve asked if they should do presents or chores first. Presents won out.

As they tramped up to the house, Sharon asking Simon about his studies, Sam bumped his shoulder against Steve’s.

“You don’t mind that he’s here?” Sam muttered, just loud enough for Steve to hear.

Steve raised an eyebrow, smiled at his friend. “Why would I? Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. And he’s your brother.”

For all the upbeat attitude he usually showed, Sam rarely smiled like _that._ “Yeah, he is.”

“Who is what?” Simon was looking over at them.

 _“You_ are officially my brother and a terrible _bother.”_

Simon stopped in his tracks, hand to his chest as he swayed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Wounded. By my own flesh and blood. You will live to regret this,” he croaked, sinking to his knees.

“And so will you,” Sam said cheerfully, hauling him bodily back to his feet, and almost dumping him off the steps into a snowbank.

Steve knew it had taken Sam and his big brother years to rebuild their relationship to this point. There had been a lot more than just seven years and their sister Sarah between them, when Simon’s life had gone off the rails in his high-school years. Alcohol and a variety of drug addictions had taken him down some pretty bad roads. He’d been sitting in a jail cell, strung out on meth when Riley had died.

The Wilson brothers had had a terrible fight the next time Simon came home, almost a month after the move to Fernwood. Steve only knew for sure how shaken Sam had been the next day at school, but according to Simon whatever his little brother had said actually sank in, and stayed with him, starting him on the long slog back to a real life.

In the kitchen Steve heated up some apple cider and they all drank it while Steve, Sam, and Sharon took turns opening their presents, and Simon made the occasional joke. Everyone had a good laugh when it turned out that Sam and Sharon had both unwittingly given Steve the same thing: a framed photo of Winter.

Sharon had taken hers with her good camera; a soft sunset shot of Winter looking off toward the mountains, a light breeze playing with his mane. On the back she had written, _So everyone can see what you see._

Sam had only taken his with his phone, but Steve waved off his apology. “This one can go beside my bed.” In it, Steve was standing at Winter’s neck, finger-combing his mane. Winter had twisted his head around to sniff at Steve’s shoulder, and even under the shade of his cowboy hat it was clear that Steve was looking right into his eyes, smiling.

“Mind if I see?” Simon asked.

“Sure,” Steve replied, handing it over.

Simon was quiet for a little while, studying it. “That’s a lotta scars,” he finally said. “Except, with you there, he looks like just another happy horse.”

Steve had opened his presents last, and now he jumped to his feet, suddenly realizing he hadn’t seen Winter since they finished chores before lunch, and now it was coming on dusk.

“Why don’t you come see for yourself? And then we can get the evening feeds done.”

There was laughter and chattering as they headed back out into the cold winter air. The sun had slipped behind some clouds above the horizon, leaving a pale blue shadow over everything.

It was only as they approached the office, about to round the corner and see the corrals, when Steve stopped suddenly, cocking his head. Sharon bumped into him, and the others pulled up, falling silent.

“What-?” Sam started to ask, but Steve silenced him.

“Listen.”

It was loud now in the silence, a terrible wrenching groan. Grunting, sharp, fast breathing.

“What the-?” Simon started.

“Winter?” Steve blurted, moving suddenly, the sound of an animal in pain pulling him forward like a fishing line.

“Winter…?” He was frozen with his hands on the gate, his breath stuck somewhere between his lungs and mouth.

_Dear God…_

The world blurred for a second, snapped back into focus.

Blood. That was blood in the snow. Deep red, splashed on blue-white. Blood on Winter’s forelegs, fresh and steaming. The cause? A maybe foot-long stick of something protruding from Winter’s side behind his right foreleg, dangling almost in line with the leg.

Steve's brain was firing at top speed. A post on one corner of the shelter was snapped, broken, the upper two-thirds dangling. A splinter. Winter had impaled himself with a splinter of wood.

His eyes locked on Winter’s, but Winter was hardly seeing him. His eyes were rolling, wild.

“Steve!” A hand clamping onto his wrist, Sharon’s voice a sharp whisper. “What do you want us to do?”

“We’re gonna have to tranq him. Vet won’t be able to touch him otherwise. Sharon, get one from the door of the medicine fridge. Get the four… hundred.” Winter wasn’t a big horse and better to underdose than overdose. "Sam, call Clint. Get him to bring Natasha if she’s at their place. Impaled, to the lower chest, lots of blood, possible damage to lungs. Simon, on standby.”

“Got it,” the brothers said at the same time.

Steve was unlatching the gate, stepping inside, his eyes only for Winter. “Send Sharon in when she comes back.

“Hey, Winter, hey, big guy, hey, Winter, it’s okay now, easy, now there, how the hell did you get yourself all wound up like this, eh? Looks like you might have even nicked an artery there, considering how much blood you’re losing, easy fella, listen to me, I can help okay? I know it’s pain, and you’ve gotten used to pain, but it hurts anyway, I know what it’s like, but I promise you I didn’t cause it, I only want to help, I can help if you’ll let me. Please, Winter, you’ve gotta trust me. You’ve gotta let me in, you’ve gotta let us in.”

That was the longest walk Steve had ever taken, his boots crunching slightly in the snow, hands loose at his sides, forcing his own panic back with every word he spoke. Winter was trembling, sweating, bleeding, his feet shifting restlessly.

From the second time Steve called his name though, his ears were on Steve. And there, okay, now that was Winter watching him, his eyes wide, showing the whites, the fear and the fight warring through him.

Steve paused, a couple feet away, forcing himself not to think about the blood streaming down Winter’s leg in bursts, the ragged breathing which carried the possibility of a punctured lung. He made himself step past those thoughts, and just look at Winter in this moment.

“Please, Winter, it’s okay, I promise, I’ll help you, if you’ll trust me, please, don’t try to fight me, please don’t be afraid of me. I trust you, Winter. I trust you not to hurt me.

“Come on, Winter.” He was taking one more step forward. “It’s okay.”

At the same moment Steve stepped forward, Winter did the same. For a moment they were nose to nose, before Winter gave a great heaving sigh, and rested his muzzle on Steve’s shoulder.

For a moment Steve didn’t breathe, before he lifted his hand to rub slowly up and down Winter’s neck. He heard Sharon approaching, her own murmurs to Winter, but Winter didn’t pull away. He was trembling all over, but still he stood there with Steve.

He felt the slim syringe slipped into his free hand, heard Sharon’s quiet voice, “Clint’s on his way. Nat was at their house, so she’s coming too. The guys are doing feeds and getting that done.”

“Okay,” Steve murmured, to both Sharon and Winter. “Have Sam and Simon get a stall ready. And go look at the post to see how long that splinter is. Need to know how much is inside him.”

“On it, Cap.”

As Sharon now stepped away, another wave of tension seemed to ebb out of Winter, and he dropped his head even further, now pressing his forehead into Steve’s shoulder; almost the same thing he’d done the first night he touched Steve, a kind of mute plea.

Then it had been, _Let me be close to you._ Now it was, _Save me._

For a moment they were suspended in that touch, Steve’s head bowed to press his forehead between Winter’s ears.

And then everything was moving again. It was so easy to slip the needle into Winter’s neck, and deliver the shot. _Stop the blood, now, I’ve gotta stop the blood. He’s losing too much._

He was stuffing the re-capped syringe back into his coat pocket, and Sharon was calling. “Maybe 18 inches long? Not more.”

“Ok, we need to pull it out, then get the blood slowed down.”

“I’ve got a couple old towels from the barn.”

“You have to pull it out, I need to stay at his head. He’s gonna react, keep to the side as much as possible. God only knows what angle it’s gone in at, but there’s gonna be at least three inches inside there.”

A few more quiet instructions, Sharon bending to examine the wounds in the fading light. Steve heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Ready when you are,” was all she said.

He had no halter to hold, no way of restraining Winter, which wouldn’t help anything anyway. Winter would definitely jump, someone else might get hurt… But the tranq would take another 10 minutes to act and it had to be done and they couldn’t be more ready. So he said, “Now.”

Winter went straight up on his hind legs, Steve caught a glimpse of Sharon falling back, the stick of wood clutched in her hand. Hooves in the air above Steve’s head, warm blood splattering his face. And then Winter came down. _Down,_ down.

His back legs faltered, and he dropped his front feet to the ground, before he staggered, and then his legs were all folding, he was down, thrashing, trying to regain his feet, Steve was pushing his head down, kneeling all his weight on Winter’s neck. He put his hand between Winter’s front legs, all warm and wet and torn flesh.

Sharon was behind Winter, out of the way of the striking hooves, leaning over to pass Steve the towels, and the world was a terrible blur of fear and pain and heat, and the smell of blood and sweat and horse, and cold air in Steve’s lungs. And though he had no breath for it, the mantra played on in Steve's head. _Winter. Winter. Winter. Please, God, please. Please, Winter. Winter. Winter. Winter..._


	14. Colour of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's still Monday somewhere in the world! (my default day if Saturday doesn't work for updates)  
> Hope this satisfies y'all. It's kinda hard to write Christmas stuff in the middle of a heat wave! I'm fried...

“…because of the effect it can have on blood pressure, but you did the right thing.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t have let us do any of that otherwise.”

“He lost a lot, but he’ll be fine. We’ll run the IV for 24 hours, antibiotics of course and saline. Make sure he drinks, once he’s with it enough. I’ll give you some stuff to put in his water for the next couple days.” Doc Barton sank into a crouch next to Winter’s front legs, ran blood-stained fingers through his sandy hair. “About the lung…”

Steve bit his lip, hand going out to rest on Winter’s shoulder. The horse was too drugged to even lift his head from the thick bedding of shavings, though his ears twitched.

“I can’t tell for sure if it is punctured. Looking at the splinter, it’s right on that line between maybe/maybe not. His breathing isn’t as even as I’d like, but with the blood loss, the shock and the injury, and how much he is uncertain of human contact, that’s not so surprising.” The vet hesitated, giving Steve a side look. “To know for sure, I mean, we’d have to do an ultrasound, which of course would mean taking him to a clinic…” He put his hands on his knees, straightened up slowly.

Steve stood too, facing him across Winter’s prone body. “That’s… not really an option.” Because it wasn’t, no matter how much his heart sank at the words. Not even love could find money they didn’t have. “But you say it probably isn’t? Punctured?”

Clint shrugged, spread his hands. “Like I said, taking everything into account, it’s fifty-fifty. Where the wound is, where it went between the ribs, approximately how far it went… My gut feeling is that it’s not.”

“How do we know?”

“Give him a couple days. If he’s acting normal, if he’s running around, if he’s breathing fine, then he’s fine. If his breathing gets worse, if it’s laboured, if he’s not moving around much, then you know something’s wrong.”

The nearest equine vet clinic was hours’ drive away… Steve shook his head, clenched his jaw. “There won’t be. Anything wrong.”

Clint nodded, hesitated. “Just… If there is… After three or four days… Just so I know, I’m assuming you’d want to do it yourself?”

Steve gulped back something between tears and nausea at the thought of having to put a bullet through Winter’s head. He’d done it before, once with his dad and once on his own. Almost against his will, he glanced down at Winter’s head, the scars that ran down his face. The eyes dulled with the drugs now, but still watching him, still questioning, still fighting.

“Yeah.” It came out in a whisper and he quickly cleared his throat, spoke aloud. “Yeah, I will, thanks.”

“No!”

The word was sharp and both Steve and Clint turned toward the stall door where the vet’s assistant Natasha had been standing. Now she stepped aside for Sharon and, behind her, Sam.

Sharon had blood smeared across her forehead, probably from brushing hair out of her face and there were rusty streaks across Sam’s shirt from wiping his hands there. Steve saw Sharon take a deep breath, blinking hard, before she spoke again.

“We’ll cover it. If he needs to go to a clinic, if he needs surgery or something, we’ll take care of it.”

Steve’s eyes flickered to Sam’s face and he nodded. “Dude. He’s a fighter, he’ll be fine. And if he needs a little extra help, we can make sure he gets that.”

Steve gave his head a slow shake. “Guys, you can’t–”

“Dude, it’s basically your money anyway, cause you’re the one who pays me.”

“Steve.” Sharon’s voice was quiet, steady again. “He might be your horse. But you’re… our friend. I’m not letting you lose him too.”

Steve glanced from one to another, and then suddenly he saw Simon standing a little further back. Simon gave the smallest of nods and a half smile, because if anyone knew about grace… It took all Steve’s willpower not to cry right then.

“Fine, you stubborn idiots,” he managed to blurt out. He looked back down at Winter, trying to collect himself.

Clint cleared his throat. “Like I said, my feeling is that he’ll be fine. Just keep him quiet—I’ll leave some extra dope, because you’re probably gonna need it, and keep your eye out for any infection. The usual.

“Now, I’d better wash up. Rather not get back to my Christmas turkey looking like I got murdered.”

Nat raised her eyebrows, making way for him. “I’ve seen worse.” But she did not follow her boss immediately, instead looking back at Steve.

“You gonna be okay?”

The redhead was a year older than Steve, but they’d all gone to high school together and she had often hung out with Steve, Sam, and Sharon (and somehow Sam _still_ hadn’t asked her out).

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. You guys should get back to your supper.”

She gave a little smile. “I’ll make sure to tell Laura and the kids ‘hi’ for you guys.” The Bartons had been Nat’s last hope for a foster home, back when she was 13 and still wearing the label ‘psycho’, and though she’d decided to keep her birth family name of Romanoff, she was one of theirs in heart.

She gave all three of them quick hugs, and shook Simon’s hand, before Clint’s F-250 finally pulled away from the barn. Simon was teasing his brother, but Steve turned and walked back to Winter’s stall, stared down at him for a long minute. The stitches behind his front right leg. The bandaging that wrapped around his neck and shoulder to be held in place. The still-slightly-fast rise and fall of his side as he breathed.

He made it the three steps across the stall to him, before his legs gave out and he knelt by Winter’s neck. He realized his hands were shaking, and he buried them in Winter’s mane. To his surprise, Winter responded this time, lifting his head and heaving his front legs so they were folded under him. He bent his head slowly around, snuffling at Steve’s arm.

Steve took one look into those dark eyes, saw past the haziness to recognition, almost as if Winter had been waiting for this moment, when it was just the two of them, to reach out.

They had come so close, so close to losing him. All the blood, the panic from Winter before the drugs kicked in, the long trek across the yard to the barn once the worst of it had been clamped, and still the possibility of further treatment being needed…

Now Steve did not hesitate to lean right into the warm safety of the loop of Winter’s neck, to wrap his arms around him, and hold on tight.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For trusting me.”

**

Sam and Simon stuck around for a little longer, all of them sitting around in the barn aisle on hay bales and nibbling on Christmas chocolates. Winter was still lying down and Steve left the stall door open, just so they could still make eye contact.

Poor Tessa had had to be shut in the tack room for most of the excitement, and now she sat as close to Steve as possible, chin on his knee, staring up at him. He smoothed his hand over her ears, fingering their softness. She would occasionally turn her head to lick at the blood still on his hands.

Simon was the one who asked the question: “But what the hell happened? How did he end up like that? I mean, what would make him break something like that post?”

Sharon pulled the foil off a little chocolate snowman, shrugged. “Horses can get into all kinds of crazy situations. Remember that stallion—Hawk—who put his foot through the fence?”

Steve shook his head slowly. “I really don’t know. We’ll have to take a look in the daylight… Uggh.” He sighed, rubbed a hand across his face. “I honestly don’t know. He hasn’t had a panic about anything in months, and we didn’t make that shelter particularly breakable. That was a four-inch cedar post he busted; that would take a good kick. And then he ran into the broken part and got impaled on a splinter.”

“He would have had to run _over_ the broken part, because that wound was all on the inside of his front leg.” Sharon sucked on her chocolate frowning. “That’s the kind of thing horses only do when they’re in a blind panic.”

Steve was remembering a shrill, screaming whinny, a man vaulting a fence, the crash of breaking boards. “Or when they’re going after someone. Or something.”

Sam had been quiet, and Steve couldn’t help thinking he looked drained. Now he conveyed his understanding of Steve’s words, with just a glance and a nod.

“But who-? We were all inside, Nick was gone at noon.” Sharon’s expression became distinctly unsettled. “You don’t think someone wandered in and just decided to say ‘hi’ to the horsey?”

“Or maybe a coyote.” Steve shrugged, slumped back against the wall. “I don’t know. We’ll look in the morning.”

Simon swallowed, fiddling with the foil wrapper in his hands. “That was pretty intense, I gotta say. The way you all knew what to do, worked together…”

“You helped too,” Steve said quietly. “Having someone doing the other chores, saves me a lot of energy. Thanks.”

“We meant what we said,” Sam spoke up suddenly. “You need anything extra for him, any kind of treatment, we’ll cover it.”

Steve regarded him with a little shake of his head. “I can’t ask–”

“You didn’t,” Sharon interrupted, a little irritation creeping into her voice. “We offered.”

“So, shut up and be grateful,” Sam added, and then suddenly he was smiling, laughing just a little… before there were tears filling his eyes and he bowed his head.

Simon’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder, before he stood, stretched out his back, with a little groan. “We should probably get home for supper. Come on, Sammy.”

Steve pulled out his phone to check the time, and gave an exclamation. “Six already? Or should that be: It’s _only_ six?” He sighed, got to his feet. “I gotta stay with Winter, but you should head out, Sharon. Tell your folks ‘sorry’ for me. And I haven’t even called Nick; he’s probably wondering where we are.”

“I did.” Sharon stood next to him. “I called my parents too, said we weren’t going to make it, so Nick is going to bring us both plates, and we can just eat here in the barn.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Steve protested. “You should go home, be with your family. It’s Christmas.”

Sharon raised her eyebrows, tilted her head, a little smile playing around her lips. “I get to eat Christmas dinner with my family every year. How many chances do I get to eat Christmas dinner in a barn, with the man I love, and a horse we all helped save?”

Steve had zero arguments for that look melting him inside, except to pull her in for a kiss and then a long hug.

When Simon and Sam finally said their goodbyes, and Merry Christmases, Steve walked out with Sam, while Simon took his brother’s keys, and went ahead to warm up the vehicle.

Sam stopped right outside the barn doors, in the quiet cold of a clear Christmas night.

“You okay?” Steve asked now, because he wanted to know.

“I just… can’t stop thinking about it.” Sam’s voice was soft, and he buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket, hunching his shoulders.

“Thinking about what?” Steve prompted gently, after a silence.

Sam tilted his head back, stared up at the stars. His exhalation hung in a white cloud above his head before it faded. “Riley…” His voice trailed off, before he took a breath, continued.

“…died because he… got impaled on a tree branch. When he got thrown from his four-wheeler. By the time I got to him–” Sam shook his head hard, as if to dispel the terrible images Steve could only imagine. “He bled out so fast. I couldn’t….”

Another silence, and Steve could tell by his breathing how Sam was struggling to find words, to stay composed.

“I wanted to say…” Sam finally managed, “that I’m really glad Winter’s going to be okay. I am. I know he means a lot to you, and… I think he’s special too. That’s what I wanted to say. But–” his voice was breaking now.

Steve did not hesitate to reach out, to take Sam by the shoulders and pull him into a hug. He didn’t need another word to hear the rest of Sam’s thoughts. _But why Winter and not Riley? Why did Winter get the help he needed, and Riley didn’t? Why a horse, and not my best friend?_

Sam’s hands came up, gripping the back of Steve’s jacket, something to hold onto as he fought a wave of grief that threatened to pull him under. Steve knew all about it; the wrenching ache that could hit out of nowhere: _I want them here._ A cry of the heart, no matter what the head tried to say.

No words could take that kind of pain away. So, they just stood and held onto each other, until Sam could breathe again.

When he pulled back, rubbed his hand over his eyes, they were quiet, watching Simon backing Sam’s car away from the house, then turning toward the barn, headlights falling over them.

When he spoke, Sam’s voice was steady. “I am really glad Winter’s okay. Gonna be okay.”

“I hope so.”

“Of course, he will be.” Sam looked steadily at Steve. “He’s a fighter. Same as you.”

“Same as you,” Steve answered, and then they were smiling at each other. Tired, worn, still smeared with blood. But when they said it, they meant it; somehow, in spite of everything, it was still true.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Sam.”

**

“Hey, Steve.” A hand was shaking his shoulder, and he roused himself, sat up to blink around at Sharon.

“Hey. You should go get cleaned up before you fall asleep.”

“Why?” Steve stifled a yawn. “I’m just sleeping in the barn.”

Sharon shook her head. “I know, but trust me, you are going to feel like crap if you wake up all covered in blood and sweat like that. Go to the house, get changed, take a shower. I’ll stay with him.” When Steve still hesitated, she gave him The Look. “I’m not going home until you are clean and you are both settled."

Steve decided not to argue.

He was full now, and warm on the inside; no wonder he was dozing off. Sharon’s parents had come along with Nick to deliver the food and check on their daughter and basically-already-adopted son. Harrison Carter was a warm, kindly man, and he had given Steve a big hug. Steve had been hit with the realization that he smelled exactly the way Steve remembered his dad smelling at Christmas: a mix of farm and food and wood smoke.

His wife, Ginny, had kissed Steve on the cheek, told him to eat up, and that he looked like he’d 'just come back from the wars'.

After Nick, Steve, and Sharon were finally left in peace, to eat their supper in the barn aisle, Nick had said, “If it’s alright with you, Cap, I’ll be staying in your guest room tonight.”

At another offer of care and concern, Steve had simply shrugged, stuffed a last piece of turkey in his mouth. “Fine with me.”

The shower and the clean clothes helped perk Steve up a little bit, and he paused in his room to grab the Bible off his night table. It had been his dad’s, then his mom’s, now his. He remembered with a guilty pang, that he had neglected to read the Christmas story that morning, like his parents always had.

It was with the Bible in hand, along with flashlight and phone, that Steve finally settled down at the front of Winter’s stall.

Sharon said that while he was gone, Winter had gotten up, moved around a little, taken a drink, before lying back down, all without disturbing his IV; the bag of good stuff hung from a ceiling beam, the tube running down to its place on Winter’s neck. Steve wondered if he would ever stop being amazed at Winter’s strength and resiliency.

It was as he kissed her goodnight, as he held her close, and watched Winter watch them (even through that haze, he was watching), that Steve had to take a breath, hold Sharon’s hands and whisper a prayer of thanks. Because he realized it then: He’d asked God to help Winter, to help him save Winter. And God had said ‘Yes’.

“I don’t deserve it,” he had whispered.

Sharon had pressed her hand to his cheek. “That’s the whole point of Christmas, my love. It’s not about deserving. It’s about giving.”

When he was finally alone, Steve settled down in his bed of horse blankets by flashlight, faithful Tessa curling up beside him. He had to admit it was awfully fitting to sleep in a barn on Christmas.

After he had read the Christmas story from Luke, to his most captive audience, and turned off his light, he lay in the darkness, listening to Winter breathe. Still a bit shallow, still a bit rough, but there, so wonderfully there. _In, out, in, out, in…_

The whisper came from some place deep inside him.

“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Because you didn’t need to understand something to accept it.

“Merry Christmas, Winter,” he murmured, and was suddenly asleep.


	15. Scars That Linger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, lookee here, I'm posting on a Saturday! ^^'  
> This chapter took way too long, thanks to a case of writer's block, and a couple weeks of emotional turbulence. But I am feeling a lot better now, and hope to get to the (awesome) finish soon!  
> Hope this is a good one, and answers some questions.

Steve played detective by himself the next morning—well, by himself except for Tess.

Part of him was very curious, because he really didn’t believe Winter had had one of his nightmare/flashbacks. The horse had become so much more stable, and relaxed around them all, he really had begun to leave behind the prison _they_ had made for him. Winter had to have been chasing something real.

But he also wasn’t at all sure he _wanted_ to find something real.

It was Tessa who showed him the footprints, as they wandered around Winter’s corral, looking for clues.

The last snowfall had been on Christmas Eve, and there was still the odd patch of unmarked snow in the corral. Large, rusty stains showed where the blood had fallen, and in the sunlight, he could see the trampling boot marks between the place where Winter had fallen, and the gate.

Absolutely useless anywhere close to the gate, too many people coming and going… He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, strode toward the shelter with its broken post. He wondered suddenly… If he hadn’t put that wooden shelter in here, this might never have happened, there would have been nothing to break–

He pulled himself up, abruptly. _No._ What-ifs helped nothing. He knew horses had a knack for getting themselves into trouble, no matter how impossible one tried to make that. But this wasn’t as simple as a horse getting hung up on a fence or cast in its stall. Winter had been after something, had been _fighting_ something. Or someone.

Closer to the shelter he started seeing the signs; snow torn up, down to the sandy ground, all of it mixing together. Skid marks where Winter must have slammed on the brakes and spun. But it was hard to make out anything else, the footing was so churned up.

Tess disappeared around the wall, and he followed her to the windward side, keeping his eyes on the ground. He wasn’t Fenton Hardy or Sherlock Holmes, but he knew how to translate what he was seeing. The boot prints only confirmed it.

Tess had been sniffing around the whole time, but now he saw she had stopped, intent on one spot in particular. She wasn’t a growl or bark kind of dog, just glanced back at Steve and gave a little whine. He saw them clear in one patch of snow: human footprints.

Part of him wanted to just blow it off, tell himself it could have been Nick or Sam or any of the others. But Nick had only just started getting to know Winter, and only went into the corral accompanied by Steve. And why in the world would any of them be running around Winter’s shelter?

Steve was thinking, and trying very hard not to think. It had been so long since that terrible day, the last time strange people came to the Double-R—taking so much, and leaving only loss and violation. He thought he’d done a good job of leaving that feeling behind, leaving the fear behind.

 _Focus,_ he ordered himself. _You have a mystery to solve, just do that._

So, he focussed.

He checked all the surrounding snowbanks between the corral and the road field. Nothing. The driveway was all packed down, no distinct footprints anywhere, at least not ones with that particular diamond tread. His last bit of detective-ing was to check the feed from the security cameras, specifically the one on the outside of the horse barn.

It took him a few minutes to remember how to work the software, he used it so little. The cameras themselves were sturdy, low maintenance, just an inspection from the installation company every spring, and nobody bothered to review the feed unless they needed to. Which he had done maybe once in the last two years when looking for footage of that ridiculous stunt of Sam’s involving a glow-in-the-dark steer and a toy lightsaber.

The memory eased some of the tension in him, and Steve found he was actually grinning as he pulled up the feed from December 25. Accounting for the state Winter had been in when they found him, and the rate he had been bleeding, the injury couldn’t have been more than five minutes old. When had they come out of the house?

It took some jumping around before he found what he was looking for. Or to be more accurate what he wasn’t looking for.

The line of the camera’s sight included the whole front yard, the porch just at the top of the picture, and the office on the far right. The picture was blurry, probably because of some snow on the camera lens, but it was easy enough to pick out the colours and shapes of things. The time stamp read 2:51, when Steve saw a darkly dressed figure come up the drive, go up to the house, then turn and walk back toward the barn.

Steve’s stomach curled itself into a cold, hard knot, as he watched the figure—almost certainly a man—then change direction and swerve off to the right side of the frame, left of the barn. Toward Winter’s corral. He rewound the footage, watched it again, his heart hammering against his ribs, now fighting a wave of nausea.

 _God, no. Please, not again, not again._ He had to remind himself to breathe, before he propped his elbows on the desk and dropped his head onto his hands. He heard Tess whining, now she pawed at his leg, and he pushed the chair back, bending to lift her up into his lap where he could wrap his arms around her.

The warm weight of her against his chest helped, and he gave a long shuddering sigh, leaned back, and stared up at the photos that covered the walls, picking out a few.

Big Bailey, little flaxen-maned Dorrin, the intelligent Thoroughbred Gandalf, Joseph Rogers’s tall black Viking… and Buck. Buck, his glossy dark bay coat groomed to perfection, standing with his chin on a much younger Steve’s shoulder, staring into the camera, all bright eyes and pricked ears, as if he was totally unaware of the dandelion chain he was eating from around Steve’s neck.

Valuable animals—and even more, friends. Friends who had disappeared that day…

“Steve?”

Steve found himself sucking in a deep breath, his grip on Tess loosening. No, he didn’t have his dad _or_ his mom to help him now. But he certainly wasn’t alone. _Thank You, God._

Nick was refilling his coffee mug; Steve had no idea how he could drink it cold. “You alright, Cap? Find something?” he added more seriously, apparently taking in the security feed on the computer screen.

“Someone was here last night,” Steve said quietly. He reached to rewind the file, feeling Nick lean in close behind him. “Found footprints in the corral, Winter was chasing him.”

Nick watched the clip in silence, before straightening up, turning to lean back against the desk, staring at the wall, thinking. “Probably played hide-n-seek around the shed trying to keep away from him, and then all it would take is one kick. Makes sense.” He glanced down at Steve, his one eye keen and searching. “Are you okay?”

 _No._ “What should we do?” Steve asked instead, keeping his voice steady.

“Are you gonna call the police?”

Steve bit his bottom lip. “What do we even have for them? Fuzzy surveillance footage and some footprints? And a horse who got hurt going after this person?”

“And you don’t want a black mark against Winter’s name.” Nick frowned suddenly, tilted his head. “Do we have footage of him leaving?”

Steve blinked at Nick, blinked again because there was something in his eye, and then sat up, making Tessa jump to the floor.

Ten, eleven, twelve minutes later, Steve saw the dark figure go bolting past the office and disappear down the drive.

“Like the hound of hell was after him,” Nick remarked, as thirty seconds after that, Steve and the others came down from the house. Steve turned his head to stare at Nick, who sighed. “So, there’s no evidence Winter hurt anybody. _He_ is the one hurt here.”

“So, you’re saying I _should_ call the police.”

“What could they do?”

Steve sighed, leaned back again. “Well, no ID; no _proof_ of anything, other than that someone wandered onto the ranch last night, looked at one of our horses, and left in a hurry. What could they do? Drive by a little more frequently?” He closed his eyes. “I honestly don’t know.”

Nick had his arms crossed over his chest; his eye focussed on the wall instead of Steve. “What do you think your mom would say if she was here?”

The tears came without warning, and he had rarely been more thankful for Tess than at moments like this. Nick stood quietly, drinking his coffee, sober, patient.

It was really only because of the crisis with Winter that he’d been spared a breakdown yesterday. But there was no holding back this flood of aching sadness, not when all he could think of was her steady voice and warm, comforting arms that had carried him through so much. Her light spirit and wise counsel.

_Sitting on the front steps, staring down the driveway toward the road, watching the sunset. The slap of the screen door, her sitting beside him, arm wrapping around his shoulders._

_The two of them sitting in the office, going through receipts, Steve asking, “Have you ever tried to find a cheaper shavings company?” The brightness of her smile: “Phone’s yours, darling.”_

_Her thin arm wrapped around his neck, her head covered with a warm scarf resting on his shoulder as he carried her into the house, the firmness of her kiss on his cheek, the smile in her voice: “Well, after me, carrying your bride over the threshold will be a piece of cake.”_

_Her soft voice in the darkness, whispering him to sleep: “You’re not alone, Stevie. You’re never alone.”_

When he was finally breathing quietly, he lifted his head from Tess’s fur, took the Kleenex Nick offered. “Sorry,” he muttered, blowing his nose.

Nick merely asked, “Coffee?”

Steve shook his head, leaned back to look up at his parents’ oldest and most trusted friend. “She wouldn’t want me to be afraid. She never wanted any of us to live in fear. Of it happening again. I know that much.”

“Only put in the cameras for the insurance.” Nick shrugged. “You know me, I grew up in a bad neighbourhood. Being paranoid saved your life most nights. But it makes a difference when you know Someone bigger than you is watching your back.”

Steve’s glance strayed to the family photo sitting on the desk. “I wish I remembered it as often as she could.”

**

Sam leaned on his shavings fork, frowning at Steve, who leaned against the stall door, arms crossed. Sharon stood in the aisle, and Steve’s glance slid to her. She was a little pale, but he knew telling both his friends was important. However they dealt with this, they should do it together.

“So, you’re not going to call the police?” asked Sam.

Steve shrugged. “I see no reason to. We have nothing but a trespassing that we can prove, and absolutely no leads as to who.”

“But who is he?” Sharon blurted. “Why was he here? What did he want? Why did he… go after Winter?”

“And why did Winter go after him?”

Steve glowered at Sam, who raised his eyebrows.

“He’s gotten way calmer about people being in his corral, even strangers. Sure, he won’t approach them, but he doesn’t try to kill anyone. Not even Nick or Uncle George. He must have been trying to kill this guy.”

“He. Is. Not…” Steve started, voice low and hard.

Sam sighed. “Fine. Fight. He was trying to fight this guy. Which gives you one of two options. Some kid from town who’s heard about the crazy hor–”

“He is _not_ _–_ ”

“The horse who put you in the hospital… I’m not saying that’s how I see him, Steve, that’s just the stories that have gone around and other people have heard… and they came to take a shot at him…”

“On Christmas Day?!”

“And alone?” Sharon added. “No, you’d bring your friends to prove it to them.”

“Or it’s someone he used to know,” Sam finished. “Someone who used to know him.”

There was a little silence.

Steve glanced over at Winter’s stall where the horse stood, quietly chewing hay, eyes still a little fuzzy, but intent on Steve. _Someone he used to know. Someone who used to hurt him, to beat him, to try to break him. Like those guys at the auction…_

“Those guys from the auction would know the address.”

Steve gave Sharon a quick glance. “But we have no proof.”

“So, what _are_ we going to do?” Sam queried.

“Keep Winter in the barn as long as he’s comfortable, and I’ll sleep with him. Nick will stay in the house until Uncle and Auntie get back from New York. And I will call and tell them what happened, but I’ll get them to finish out their vacation; the crisis is over, after all. And obviously we can pray.”

“Always,” Sharon said, and when he glanced over, she was smiling.

**

Steve ate his breakfast in the barn, munching on toast and granola bars while Winter chewed his way through his grain.

He was still on a mild sedative until that evening, but Steve was close to ecstatic at the horse’s reactions so far. He tensed up when other people came into the stall, and flinched at any loud noises. But there was no fear in his eyes when he looked at Steve.

When Steve slipped a small currycomb from his pocket and began rubbing it in circles over Winter’s coat, Winter even fell into a light doze, only jerking awake when Steve’s hands came too close to his face; he could still be uncertain about that. It was like he understood, Steve thought. He understood that everything Steve was doing was only for Winter’s good. Somehow, he knew it now.

“I won’t let them get you,” Steve murmured, leaning on Winter’s shoulder, and meeting the horse’s gaze as he looked around. “I promise, Winter. They’ll have to go through me now. I won’t let them hurt you again.” Winter gave a soft nicker, and Steve smiled. “Just promise _me_ you’ll keep getting better?”

This time a snort, before he returned to his food.

“For purposes of my own sanity, I’m gonna interpret that as a ‘yes, sir’,” Steve chuckled.

**

And then the dream came back that night. The nightmare.

The crossed bones under the white skull leering above him, his father’s harsh choking breaths. But then it wasn’t his father dying, it was Buck. Buck falling from a cliff, broken on snowy rocks below, red blood against the snow, and Crossbones was the monster leaning over him, white bone of teeth gleaming, he was going to eat Buck, and Bucky was still alive, still breathing. And then he wasn’t, and Steve was tripping and falling…

Steve dragged himself awake, and lay in the dark, listening to his own quick breathing, before he collected himself. Tess stuck her nose under his hand, and he stroked her head. “I wish I could forget,” he whispered to her. “I wish I could just forget and never hurt again.”

Winter’s breath blew warm and soft across his face, and he reached up through the darkness, rested his hand on a horse’s face, thick ropes of scar tissue under his fingertips… Winter pulled his head away, a little shiver running all over him.

“I’ll bet you wish the same too. If you could make wishes. If you could tell me about all the things they did to you, the things you can’t forget.” He sat up slowly, looking up at the ever-so-slightly blacker black of Winter, standing above him.

“Did I ever tell you what happened to my dad? How he died?” A shuddering sigh. “I was fourteen that summer. And it was Crossbones. Or because of him, anyway. He took almost all our horses, all the ones who were in the barn. And my dad– We’d been in town and we got home and mom went into the house and we went to the barn, and then we saw it.

“He’s called Crossbones, see. And the stories say it’s because of an X-shaped scar on his chest. Like a villain from some wild west show. But he’s… a psychopath. He leaves a sign anytime he raids a place. A white skull-and-crossbones, like a stupid Jolly Roger, spray painted. It’s been a long time since I last heard about him, but no one’s ever caught him. Even though he has killed people.

“He killed my dad. At least, that’s how it feels. He emptied the barn that day, left us the six horses who were out in the back pasture. Eight horses gone. Buck…”

Steve’s throat closed over, and he could remember the shock, taste the disbelief as he ran through the barn yelling, in the middle of Buck’s stall spinning frantically in a circle as if Buck would just appear in the corner if Steve only called long enough, looked hard enough. And then he was running back down the aisle, shouting, “Dad! Dad! We have to go look for them.”

He remembered watching his father fall, his shadowy silhouette crumpling in the doorway. The irrational thought: _He’s been shot!_

“It was his heart. It hadn’t been working right for a couple years, and he couldn’t– It didn’t– He had a heart attack. He died.”

Standing in the farm yard, in a swirl of coloured lights, watching his mother weep, feeling so incredibly alone as he looked up at a young female police officer, who said her name was Maria.

_“He’s gone.”_

_“You mean he’s dead.”_

_She winced. “Yes.”_

Steve had turned and fled.

“I remember searching all over the ranch for him. I thought if I could just find Bucky, everything would be okay.” Steve wiped his sleeve across his face. “I knew how Crossbones worked, that he would have trailered them out, but I just… I wanted him, I needed him. And I couldn’t find him.”

Two things Steve had promised his father the day they buried him: That he would find Buck and Viking and the others, and that he would never let the ranch die. He had never been able to fulfill the first one, but he was doing his darnedest with the second.

For the second time that day—or in the last 24 hours; he had no idea what time it was—Steve could not hold the tears back. And he didn’t try to.

He caught his breath though, when a soft nose nudged his shoulder, horse lips wuffling over the fabric of his shirt, before Winter dropped his head into what seemed to be his favourite spot: his nose settled in the crook of Steve’s elbow, his forehead resting against Steve’s cheek.

Steve pressed his face into Winter’s forelock, and though he was still crying something tight and painful in his chest seemed to have eased. “I know it’s been a long time,” Steve murmured brokenly. “But sometimes… six years hurts more than one because it’s been that long since I last saw him. Last saw either of them.”

It was a while till Steve sniffled himself quiet, but Winter had stood still the whole time, one hoof cocked, and his breathing warm against Steve’s arm. Steve turned his head, and pressed a kiss to the place where the two scar lines intersected. “I’m glad you’re here, Winter,” he whispered. “You’re… a good friend.”


	16. Ode to Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm not dead. Just... lost my way for a bit, I guess? The ending of this chapter was not in the original plan, but hopefully it will make some of my Staron loving friends happy.  
> I seriously hope this reads okay. Have fun!

It definitely wasn’t a punctured lung.

Steve leaned back against the fence, arms crossed over his chest, watching Winter race across the corral, throwing up clouds of white.

“Dashing through the snow!” Sharon yelled, laughing. And then everyone was clapping and cheering: Sam, Simon, Nick, Uncle George, Aunt Winnie. Even the Bartons and Natasha had come over to see the first time Winter got turned out after his near-death experience.

Steve glanced over his shoulder, traded grins with Sam, feeling like he could actually breathe again. The anxiety of first Winter’s injury and then the discovery of the intruder had been a steady weight on Steve’s shoulders. Sure, watching Winter settle into life in a stall, watching him actually enjoy being groomed—all of which had happened way faster and easier than Steve expected—was a big encouragement.

But man, did it feel good to see his horse galloping the perimeter of his corral, head tossing so that his now combed-out mane fluttered in the breeze. As he passed Steve, several chunks of snow nailed Steve in the face, and he gasped, before letting out a yell. “Hey, Winter! What the heck was that for?”

A joyful buck was Winter’s only reply, and Steve was laughing as he bent to scoop up a handful of snow, and fired it in Winter’s direction.

Winter spun on his hind legs, gracefully dodging the missile, and came thundering straight toward Steve. Steve sucked in an alarmed breath, suddenly wondering if he’d made a mistake, if Winter still wasn’t ready for that kind of game. He found Winter’s eyes—bright, focussed—and gulped, but held his ground.

The spray from Winter’s sliding stop reached up to Steve’s waist, and he heard the noises of surprise from the others behind him. But Steve looked up into Winter’s face, saw the light in the eyes meeting his without fear. Winter nudged Steve’s shoulder, blowing clouds of warm breath over his face, and Steve laughed again, quieter this time, with just a little awe.

He reached to rub Winter’s neck, leaning in to breathe back into the horse’s nostrils.

“That’s my boy,” he murmured. “That’s my Winter.”

Doc Barton had let himself into the corral, and now came to stand beside Steve. Winter swung to face him, but though he snorted and moved his feet uneasily, he did not back away.

“Love it when my job ends this happily. Especially if I have to sacrifice my plum pudding and eat it _reheated.”_ He shuddered dramatically, then grinned at Steve. “Far as I’m concerned, he’s got the all clear.”

Someone tossed a slice of hay over the fence, and Winter snorted, pricking his ears. Steve rubbed his neck again, digging his fingers into the thick winter hair. “Go ahead, you eat. We need to get back to work.”

As the Bartons were piling back into their van, Steve solemnly shook Clint’s hand. This time there was no blood on either of them.

“Thanks for everything, Doc.”

“He’s a tough horse. Hope you have as much fun getting him broke to ride.”

Steve smiled a little. “I’ll take my time with that.”

As he waved the Barton Caravan down the drive, Steve noticed Nat’s black RAV4 was still parked by the office. Someone yelled his name, and he saw Sharon in front of the barn waving him over.

“Nick’s got orders for us,” she said, smiling and taking his hand. “Trail ride,” she added as they entered the barn to the sound of hooves on cement, and jingling tack, and Sam and Natasha laughing.

“Take Sunny,” came Nick’s voice from a stall behind them. He dumped a forkful of manure in his wheelbarrow, and raised the eyebrow above his good eye at Steve. “He needs the work if you're going to have him ready for sale in the spring. And you haven’t been off the place in a week, so go have some fun with your friends. I don’t want to see you back here for a couple hours.”

Steve shook his head, rolled his eyes a little. “Man, you’d think I was being sent to Alcatraz or something.”

“I think it’s easier to escape Alcatraz than Nick when he’s in a dad mood,” Sharon said.

“Dad mood, or bad mood, what’s the difference?”

“Oh, you think you’re funny,” Nick shook his head and turned away, but Steve saw him smiling. “Get outta here, Cap.”

With Steve on Sunny, a buckskin three-year-old stock horse he had broken to saddle that summer, Sharon taking Peggy, Nat on Falcon, and Sam riding Trafalgar because the filly needed a more experienced rider, the young people rode out. They left the plowed yard behind for the trails, where the last fall of snow, three days prior, was still undisturbed.

Steve glanced back more than once, still uneasy about leaving Winter, but Sharon brought Peggy up alongside, and leaned over to sock him in the arm.

“Okay, who’s being the dad now? You’re like a parent leaving their kid at kindergarten the first time. Relax, okay? Nick and Tess are on guard duty. He’s healthy, he’s happy.” The way she smiled at him had a funny little quiver in it. “It’s your turn.”

Steve laughed, his breath clouding on the cold air, and took her gloved hand in his. The cloudy sky was a soft, clean grey. “Yes, dear.”

**

They did take a long ride up to Hangman’s Hill, as Joseph Rogers had christened it in a ‘boyish flight of fancy’ as he used to say. Some drifts came up to the horses’ bellies and Sam had to put a lot of effort into urging Traffie through them. Another part of the path on the side of a hill was bare and windswept and they had a good gallop.

When they rode back into the yard, they were all breathless and flushed, laughing and covered to varying degrees in snow.

“There was this one time,” Sam was saying, “when we were like ten, I think, and we decided to stage a sword fight with the snow forts we’d built in the park, and then it turned into this huge battle with at least a dozen other kids. Ri was leading one side, and me the other. But we had scarves over our faces and were pretending we didn’t know each other, until we were fighting hand to hand and I got my hat pulled off.”

“So you staged a touching reunion on the battlefield, and promised never to fight again, and there was only peace throughout the land?” Nat rested her arms on her saddle horn, absently patting Falcon’s neck, as she grinned over at Sam.

“Nah.” Traffie shied abruptly at the sound of the tractor staring in the machine shed, but Sam stilled her and went on as if nothing had happened. “We both did the big dramatic, ‘YOU!’ and were fighting harder than ever yelling things like, ‘You stole my castle!’ and ‘No, you stole mine!’ and then someone nailed Ri in the face with a snowball. I turned on my own man, beat the tar out of that guy, and Ri and I took the other fort by storm, because everyone just fell in behind us.”

“So you’re a friend and a traitor,” Steve nodded. Tess came bounding out of the barn, with a little bark or two, and Steve waved. “Hey, girl, let’s go check on Winter. You’ll like him, Sunny,” he added to his mount.

They rode on past the front of the horse barn, Sharon and Natasha now singing, “Baby, you’re a firework!” (and butchering the high notes because they kept laughing).

Winter was standing in his corral munching on hay as Steve rode up with a cheerful greeting. “Hey, boy. Still enjoying the snow?”

The horse turned his head, nickering in response, before Steve stilled, his eyebrows going up in surprise. “Nick?”

“Howdy, Cap.” Nick nodded at him over Winter’s back. “Have a good ride?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was good.” Steve bumped his hat back with one finger. “So, he’s letting you groom him?”

Nick shrugged, though Steve was pretty sure there was a little smile playing around the corners of his mouth; the hand with the brush kept moving. “He seems to like my singing. Which you interrupted, by the way.”

Steve sat still for a minute, watching Winter get brushed. Nick was clearly avoiding going too close to his head, but he stood calmly, his ears twitching to catch Nick’s voice more clearly. He sang a few lines under his breath: “And sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. If we had wandered the same path in life…”

Winter twisted his neck to nose at Nick’s arm, and Steve could have sworn that Nick slipped him something from his pocket. Steve felt an amazed smile come across his face, even as he squashed a whisper of (dare he admit it?) jealousy. Of course, it was a good thing for Winter to be trusting more people, to be comfortable with being handled by the other people who normally worked at the ranch.

“I was definitely not going to try to bring him in,” Nick added, glancing back up at Steve. “I’ll leave that to you.”

Steve nodded, giving the older man a quick grin, as he turned Sunny toward the barn. “Thanks,” he called. “Just be careful with my horse. Captain’s orders.”

Steve was quiet as he put Sunny in cross-ties and untacked her, letting the other’s conversation flow past him as he ruminated. He was ducking into the tack room, his arms full of saddle, when he ran into Sam and spoke his thoughts aloud.

“He used to know this.”

“Huh?” Sam furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Winter.” Steve slung his saddle onto an empty rack and turned back to his friend. “He used to know this stuff. And I don’t mean just basic training; we all know he’s had that. I mean, good training. Being in a barn, being groomed, being fed treats, being treated well. Somewhere before he got broken, he was loved.”

They ducked back out into the aisle, but stood still as Steve kept talking. “That’s why he’s adjusting to this new routine so easily. He remembers it. Or something like it.”

Sam nodded. “Makes sense. He’s got plenty of bad memories, but having some good ones underneath all that is probably more than likely. And that would make things a hell of a lot easier.”

“Yeah. Like, now that we’ve unlocked those good memories, we just need to make sure they stay unlocked, make sure he can keep remembering those good things. Reinforcing the positive memories…”

“Until they are stronger than the negative,” Sam finished. “Which is way easier than starting from ground zero.”

“No kidding. And as long as that runs over into being ridden too…” Steve grinned suddenly, a sense of hope mixing with the joy that had lifted his heart that morning.

When he brought Winter into his stall a little later, Steve took his time picking out Winter’s feet, then combing out his mane and tail, smiling at the way Winter went still and let his eyes fall shut when the heavy comb hit an itchy spot.

“Like that, huh, boy?” Steve murmured, digging his fingers into the thick hair until Winter was grunting with pleasure. “You remember someone doing that for you before?” He had never really thought about Winter having a life before he was beaten and broken and forced to fight for his life. But the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that there had been good people somewhere back in his history. He wondered who they were, and if they ever remembered the horse Winter used to be.

“They’d probably be sad to see you with all the scars and stuff,” he mused aloud. “Might even feel guilty for selling you, or letting this happen to you. I know I would. But you know what? I think they’d be proud of you too. For making it this far. For ending up in hell, but somehow making it back out. I know I would be.”

He leaned his head on Winter’s neck, felt some rough scars against his cheek. Winter looked around, and Steve offered his empty hand. Winter snuffled Steve’s palm, before lipping at his horsehair bracelet.

“Careful,” Steve warned him gently. “That’s irreplaceable.” He pulled his hand away, and wrapped the fingers of his other hand around his wrist over the braid. “He was my best horse. And I’m glad you’re a horse and won’t get hurt by me saying that,” he added, rubbing Winter’s neck good-naturedly.

“But what do you think?” Steve went on, returning to his grooming. “How would you feel about me riding you in the next month or so?” He ran one hand over Winter’s back, rested it there, and imagined how it would feel to be up there so they could race the wind together, climb the mountain and go swimming…

“We’ll get there.” Steve smiled. “I promise, I’ll show how good it can be. You’ll see.”

**

“Eat.”

A plate was set on top of the papers Steve held, and he glanced up at Sharon, who raised her eyebrows. “Or I’ll make you.”

“Fine,” he sighed, lifting the plate to push the stack of receipts aside, and reaching to save the open document on the laptop.

Sharon sat beside him with her own plate of rice and chicken, reached for his hand. “I’ll say grace.”

The two of them were spending a quiet evening in, while Aunt Winnie and Uncle George were out on a date. Steve was tired and a little cranky; numbers were not his favourite thing on the best of days, and certainly not when it came to taxes. But it was that or hire an accountant; and the latter was not an option. He closed his eyes and listened to Sharon’s soft prayer, adding his own silent thanks for a girl who put up with him with as much grace as this one.

They had ice cream for dessert, and Steve went back to work with a spoon in one hand. Sharon settled down next to him with a book and a happy sigh.

“You sound comfortable,” Steve muttered, unable to keep back a little smile because he knew that tone well, and it was one of his favourites.

“Sure I am,” she said, around the ice cream. “Nice romantic night with you is as comforting as it gets.”

He glanced across at her, and she smiled over the top of _Watership Down,_ licking her spoon. He gave her a look. “What, taxes? Romantic?”

“Sure. Romantic enough for me. We’ll be doing them for the rest of our lives, so we might as well be happy about it.”

Steve glanced back at the screen, again smiling in spite of himself. It was good to be settled, good to be sure of who they were and what they meant to each other. But it was also good to be reminded again of what a wonderful and beautiful thing it was to have someone like that. Someone who loved him unconditionally _and_ romantically. Someone who made his heart beat faster, even as she steadied it. Someone who gave him beauty in the simplest things.

“I’m sorry I don’t have more to offer you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just…” Steve found he was swallowing a lump in his throat, with no idea how it had gotten there. “I want to have more for you. I wish I wasn’t just another cowboy with a ranch that’s barely scraping the bottom line, and you… you deserve more.”

She went silent for a couple minutes, staring at him with a strange intense look growing on her face, before she set her book down and moved to sit in Steve’s lap. Settling herself, she took his face in her hands, palms warm against his cheeks. “Deserve more? Deserve more than a man who loves me and cherishes me, and knows how to work hard, and pours his heart and soul into his land and his animals and still has oceans of love to pour out on me? Deserve more than you? No. I don’t even deserve you.” She gave a soft, choky laugh.

“All I want is a cowboy and a ranch and good life that’s mine. I don’t need roses from a shop, or fancy restaurants, and certainly not vacations to… Barbados or wherever. Just… pick me wildflowers, and make me supper, and go on trail rides with me. That’s all I want; that’s all I need. Just you, Steven Grant Rogers.”

The warm glow of her brown eyes burned into his, and he didn’t know what to do except kiss her—long and sweet and deep, trying to say all the things he didn’t have words for right then. When they pulled away both were slightly breathless. Sharon pressed one more quick kiss to Steve’s lips, smiling, before she wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

Steve held her close and tight, closing his eyes to inhale the smell of her hair, feel the beat of her heart against his. She was so strong and beautiful and sweet and she loved him and he didn’t, he did _not_ , deserve her. But he’d been given her.

And she was right. This was what he wanted for the rest of his life.

“Marry me?”

A soft giggle from Sharon as she sat back, linking her hands behind his neck. “Of course, I will.”

Steve took one hand off her back, reached up to brush hair off her forehead, tuck it behind her ear. “No,” he said, and he could feel his heart beating faster as he stared into her eyes. “I mean it this time, Sharon. Will you marry me?”

She was quiet for a long moment, searching him. Then she smiled, leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose. Pulled back and beamed at him. “Yes. Definitely. When?”

Steve managed a breathless laugh, having thought no further than the question itself. “Well, I guess… this year. Yeah, this summer. June.” The planning part of his brain was kicking in now. “Right before my birthday so we can have fireworks. Six months. That enough time for you put together the wedding you’ve always dreamed of?”

“If that’s the time I have, then it’s enough.” Sharon was… glowing; lit up like Steve didn’t think he’d ever seen before. Well, maybe once or twice. “We’ll have the ceremony at the church, reception here. You’ll have Sam for best man of course, and I think I’ll ask Nat to be my maid-of-honour. We can keep it simple.”

“Gotta have the horses involved,” Steve threw in.

She laughed, giddy suddenly, and scrambled to her feet, dancing in place for a moment as she clapped her hands. Tess gave a little _wuff_ and stood just out of the way, watching with her tail wagging.

“And we can make Tessa the ring bearer!” Sharon laughed, stopping and bending down to rub her hands over the soft fur, and kiss the dog’s nose.

 _Ring…_ Steve stood up suddenly. “Shoot, I can’t believe I forgot. Wait here.” He left Sharon staring after him as he took the stairs two at a time. Down the hall to his room, where he pulled up beside the bed, and knelt to pull open the drawer in the night table. The main thing in the drawer was a small wooden box, brightly painted in childish smears, and garnished with stars and horse stickers.

Sucking in a deep breath, a tinge of sadness settling his heart, Steve flicked the latch and opened the lid. His mom’s ring was in a small soft leather bag, stamped with the RR brand; Joseph Rogers’s handiwork. He loosened the strings and dumped it into his palm: a simple gold band with four tiny diamonds clustered together to form a diamond shape. It was the ring his dad had given his mom, the day he asked her to marry him. Sarah Rogers had kept her wedding ring, but she’d given this one to Steve.

_“When you’re ready to give it to her, give it with my blessing. And all the love in the world.”_

“Thanks, Mom,” he whispered.

And then he was smiling, closing the box and the drawer, before he was back on his feet, headed back downstairs.

Sharon was standing exactly where he’d left her, still smiling, with her head tilted to one side in a way that Steve thought was adorable.

“Ok, I guess, properly I should have had this earlier, should have had it when I asked you… Although, I didn’t exactly plan this in the first place–”

“Don’t!” Sharon was laughing. “Don’t ruin this proposal with apologies! It is what it is, and I like it that way.”

Steve shook his head, sighed, smiled. “Okay, here’s what we need to make this official.” He put one arm around her shoulders, and held her close as he laid the ring on her open palm. “With my mother’s blessing and love.”

With her emotions already running high, Steve wasn’t that surprised when Sharon was suddenly crying, as she slid the ring onto her third finger, where it fit perfectly. She turned into his half hug, resting her head on his shoulder, and pressing her hand against his heart. Wrapping both arms around her, Steve kissed her hair.

They were quiet for a moment.

“I loved your mom,” Sharon murmured, sniffing in a shuddering breath.

“And she loved you.” Steve smiled, remembering how his mom had teased him sometimes. “So did Dad, you know. I bet they’re both dancing around in heaven right now.”

“Saying ‘I told you so!’ to everyone who will listen.” Sharon was laughing again, wiping the tears off her face.

For a moment Steve had to bite his lip hard, remembering that neither of his parents would be there beside him on the day he got married. But he smiled at Sharon, and shook off the shadows. Later, maybe, he would let himself grieve that absence. But not now. Now was a time for joy.

“So, are you gonna let me go back to doing taxes, or are you going to make me practice our first dance or something?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted:  
> 'Firework' by Katy Perry  
> 'Trail in Life' by Dean Brody


	17. A Change in the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being a lot longer than I thought, even though nothing much happens. I just kept having more to say. Sorry it took so long.

Announcing the engagement went about the way Steve expected. Every time he or Sharon told someone they were engaged there was a lot of nodding, and smiling, and people saying, “About time!” When the question of, “Have you decided when to get married?” was asked, and their reply came quickly: “Last Saturday of June,” that was when people sat up straight, paid attention, jumped up and clapped their hands. After all this was something people had been expecting for years, and now it was only six months away.

Telling Sam the next morning may have been the most fun. They were standing outside the barn in the early morning darkness, and Sam had thrown his arms around Steve, picked him up, tossed him into a snow bank, and jumped on top of him, whooping the whole time. When they picked themselves up, Steve turned to him with a question of his own. “And you’ll be my best man, of course, won’t you?”

Sam went still, blinked at him a couple times. “You’re serious. Me?”

Steve grinned, poked him in the shoulder. “Yes, you. You’re my best friend, man.”

Sam finally broke out of his surprise with another quick hug for Steve, before he accepted the appointment with a laugh and a bow. “Does that mean I get to be the MC and make an awesome speech too?”

“Whatever you want, pal,” Steve laughed. “The stage will be yours.”

“Also, who’s Sharon asking to be maid of honour? One of her cousins?” the other boy asked as they headed into the barn. “Just so I have some idea of who I’m going to be dancing with.”

Steve bit back a little smile as he answered, “She’s texting Natasha this morning.”

“Oh. Kay.” After a moment though, Sam turned toward Steve, frowning. “You’re not just doing this cause you’re trying to get us together, are you?”

“No!” Steve put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m asking you because you’re my best friend. And Sharon is asking Nat because they’re good friends, and she’s closer to Nat than any of her cousins. Sure, I know you like her, but that’s your business. What matters is you two are _friends_ , and don’t hate each other, because _that_ would be awkward!”

As he had hoped, Sam laughed at Steve’s words, and they headed into the barn to get the day started.

**

By the end of January, almost all the important decisions surrounding the Rogers-Carter wedding had been made, and Steve was happy to let his schedule settle back to normal. Sure, getting married was a big deal, and Steve looked forward to it, but he wanted to be able to focus on the now, because _now_ was when he needed to work with Winter.

He hadn’t told anyone yet, but almost as soon as they decided that, immediately after the wedding, he and Sharon would ride horses from the church in town back to the ranch for the reception, Steve had realized something: He wanted to ride Winter.

There’d been a lot of emotions to deal with the last little while, and he knew it was especially natural around something as big as deciding to get married; frequent waves of sorrow mingling with the joy, when the absence of both his parents would hit in a new way. Pastor Renn had been great in the couple of pre-marital counselling sessions they’d done, separately and together. But what surprised Steve was how big and important his wish to ride Winter quickly became.

The next morning, a Wednesday somewhere in the middle of the month, Steve swung his legs out of bed, and sat for several minutes staring at the photos on his bedside table. The picture of his parents with Valkyrie and Viking, and the one of him and Buck were still there, but Sam’s picture of Winter and Steve was set in front of them now, alongside his and Sharon’s official engagement photo.

He noticed with a sudden pang the layer of dust that coated the joined frames at the back, and bit his lips together as he reached for them, tenderly used his pyjama shirt to wipe them clean. Then he sat for a long time staring at the smiling faces, and the treasured horses each of them held.

That was the thing that nagged at him, the thing that had kept him silent about his choice, even when Sharon had asked him after her easy naming of Peggy as her steed. Because he still had Val.

Sarah Rogers’ grey mare that she had saved at an auction as a two-year old, hardly touched by a human hand, and turned into the sweetest horse alive. Val was the first horse Steve had ever ridden, at least according to Steve’s mom, because she had still been riding her a month before Steve was born. But yes, Val was also the first horse Steve had any real memory of sitting on, her warm broad back under his legs, burying his hands in her thick mane as she stood quite still, chewing her hay.

Valkyrie was the only horse he had left, who had known both his parents. She’d been with him through thick and thin, and they had both grieved the loss of Sarah. So, wouldn’t it make sense for him to ride her on one of the biggest days of his life to honour his mother? To honour both his parents? He didn’t need to ask to know that’s what most people would expect. Especially his uncle and aunt.

But… Steve wanted Winter.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Val was getting old. Sure, she was Steve’s age, which was like 80 for a person, but she was still going strong, and he didn’t expect her to fade for a few years yet. If he didn’t have Winter, of course Steve would ride Valkyrie.

But… Steve had Winter.

Abruptly, Steve rose from the bed, gently set the photos back on the table, and left the room. Tess scrambled to follow, claws clicking faintly on the hardwood. He paused long enough in the kitchen to grab a chunk of his uncle’s zucchini loaf, as his stomach requested, before pulling on his old parka and shoving his feet into some boots, making sure to tuck in his pyjama legs.

The sky was clear and all was still as he crossed the farmyard to the horse barn, his boots making little noise on the hard-packed snow. They’d had none since before Christmas, but the temperature had remained steadily below freezing. Tess streaked off toward the hay barn, probably sniffing for raccoons, the little beggars. When he stepped into the barn, his eyes easily adjusting to the dim glow from the night lights, he heard the horses shift, heads lifting, eyes opening, chewing stopping, as everyone looked to see who had come in.

He hesitated, his eyes automatically going to Winter’s stall next to the wash rack. Winter had put his head out, bits of hay dangling from his lips as he nickered at Steve. But Steve bit his lip and turned to the stall immediately on his left.

Val had lifted her head, glanced over at his entrance, but then gone back to dozing with her head down. _Oh, it’s just you._ As he stepped up to rest his arms on the top of the half-door, she turned slowly, and came over to him, snuffling at the crumbs on his hands.

“Sorry, old girl,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” He scratched her forehead, until she finished licking his hands and turned away.

Steve rested his chin on his arms, watching her. A soft squeaky whine he recognized as Tess came from just outside the main doors, and he absently moved to let her in. Another soft nicker came from down the aisle, and he turned to meet Winter’s gaze. All the other horses had gone back to whatever they had been doing, but Winter…

An odd lump rose in Steve’s throat as he walked down to Winter, let the horse snuffle delightedly over his hands and shoulders, giving Steve’s palms a few obligatory licks, before he dropped his head and pressed it against Steve’s chest.

Steve had to swallow hard as he rested his cheek against Winter’s mane, closed his eyes to breathe in the sweet smells of horse and hay and pine shavings.

He thought he understood it then. Winter was his horse. Val wasn’t.

Valkyrie, for all her sweet patience and kind nature, would never be anyone’s horse other than Sarah’s. Steve thought of all the times when she had galloped to his mom, all the times she had stood with her chin on his mom’s shoulder. She had given her loyalties to Sarah first, and everyone else would always fall short.

But Winter, for all his fears and struggles and misunderstanding of Steve, had surrendered his trust to Steve. First and foremost, ahead of everyone else, starting that day in the sale barn when he had let Steve take his lead. The way he nickered at Steve, the way he watched him, and came to him, and pressed close because he just _wanted to be near Steve._

Winter belonged to Steve, in ways Valkyrie never could.

Steve opened his eyes and rubbed one hand over Winter’s neck, feeling the scars there. Never once had he thought he would end up with a horse like this, this broken and yet this strong.

There were so many things Steve looked forward to with Winter: riding him for the first time, taking him on the trails above the ridge, going to Rainbow Falls, maybe even taking him to the fall fair in Fernwood. It hit him then, just how far ahead he was looking, thinking about the fall, _after_ the wedding… How long had it been since he did that?

It was January now, the start of a new year. Twelve months ago, he’d been buried up to his eyeballs in horses to work, and barely getting out of bed in the mornings. Even six months ago he’d been struggling to just keep going, having some good days yeah, but always plenty of hard ones to go with it. But what had happened since then? He’d met Winter.

Steve couldn’t quite hold back a laugh, but it sounded wet and choky, as he once more buried his face in Winter’s black mane, loosely wrapping his arms around Winter’s head.

Because standing here with Winter’s head pressed against him, with the warm knowledge of the ring on Sharon’s hand, and the trust in Sam’s heart, and the love of all the other people around him, he felt… not whole, not exactly happy all the time. But at least steady, at least smiling, at least with more hope than he’d known in a long time.

“Who’s the one who needed a change, I wonder?” he murmured, half to God, half to Winter.

Because Winter had changed him, there was no mistake about that. He remembered something Sharon had said once, something about how she had prayed that he would find another horse of his own. And he’d found one. “Thanks, God,” he whispered, and he realized he’d been saying that a lot over the last several weeks. “For her _and_ him. Guess You knew what You were doing at the auction, huh?”

After a few more minutes, he slowly eased back, Winter lifting his head to eye Steve quizzically.

“But what I really came down here for was to answer a question. And I think I‘ve done that.” Because when he looked at Valkyrie, Steve remembered the past. But when he looked at Winter, Steve dreamed of the future. And somehow, he knew that his parents would understand completely. “Well, Winter.” Steve scratched at his neck, looked up into those warm brown eyes. “Will you do me the honour of riding with me and Sharon on our wedding day? I promise Pegasus doesn’t bite.”

Winter snorted and bobbed his head. Steve just laughed.

**

Funnily enough, after that conversation, Valkyrie was one of the horses Steve next enlisted to help him with Winter.

The horse’s recovery from the ‘Christmas Crisis’ was swift, once he settled into his new routine. By the end of the month he would let everyone who worked on the ranch groom him, though Steve was the only one allowed to go near his face even just to touch it. The cuts had healed well, and thanks to the stitches it looked like they might not even scar. He spent his days out in the corral, and nights in the barn. Sunny, the buckskin in the next stall, became quite friendly with Winter, and Steve finally decided it was time to turn him out with the some of the other horses.

Winter had shown no aversion to any of them, and Steve didn’t doubt he could hold his own if there were any disagreements.

“It’s any other horse that we might have to worry about,” Aunt Winnie said, banging the lid back on one of the feed bins.

“So, no boarders,” Nick put in.

“Who did you think?” Aunt Winnie asked, stirring two buckets with her hands to mix the different kinds of grains together.

“Sunny, cause they’re pretty chill together, and Val, cause she’s sweet and a boss mare, and geldings don’t argue with boss mares.” Steve stopped crushing the old mare’s arthritis pills, and dumped the white powder into her feed bucket.

“Which paddock?”

“Front. He’s used to that view.”

“Gonna try it today?” Nick grabbed the bucket from under Steve’s hands.

“No time like the present,” Steve nodded.

It was about an hour later when Steve led Winter out into the side yard, the rope slack in his hand, and Winter’s nose touching his shoulder, as always. Steve did not glance at Winter’s usual corral, keeping his focus ahead on the gate to the front pasture.

Rain had melted away the Christmas snow last week, but another freeze had immediately followed, with a fresh layer of snow. They’d had eight inches in two days last week.

Winter hesitated as they passed the gate of the corral, his head turning in that direction as his steps slowed. Steve said nothing, but clicked his tongue, and Winter caught up, a new alertness in the way he held his head, the way he pricked his ears. It didn’t feel like unease yet, just heightened awareness.

“Yeah, we’re going out to the big paddock today, you can really stretch your legs out here,” Steve murmured. “And you’ll have some friends to race against too, instead of just the wind. Turning you out first so you have a chance to get your bearings before they come in. That okay?”

One of the things Steve had noticed about Winter from the start was how he acted when something new happened. He never pranced or spooked or put on a scene. As soon as Steve led him through the gate, and turned him to face the barn, before unhooking his lead rope, Winter stilled. His ears flicked and his eyes moved, and nostrils flared. But otherwise he stood quite still, taking in all the information he possibly could.

A truck passed on the road behind them, and Winter swung his head to give a quick look. Steve rubbed his hand up and down Winter’s neck, keeping warm steady pressure, as Winter completed his ‘Danger Assessment’.

A low whinny made both of them glance back toward the yard, where Sam was leading Sunny and Valkyrie towards them. To Steve’s surprise it was Val who had called; Winter gave a soft snort in reply.

As they reached the gate Sunny started to get excited, trying to rush ahead of Sam, but the young man easily brought him back. He tossed his head, making his halter jingle, and nickered at Winter. Winter stepped back with Steve, as he swung the gate open. Steve gave his horse one more pat on the neck, before he moved to take Val, and make it easier for Sam to deal with Sunny.

“Be nice to him, old girl,” Steve murmured, as he unclipped the rope. Val was still watching Winter, almost as intently as Winter watched her. Sunny charged past them, putting on the brakes in front of Winter, and they bowed their heads, noses touching before Sunny squealed, and struck out.

“They act like they’ve never met each other before.” Sam rolled his eyes. “At least he does. Want me to get some hay for them?” he added, turning to head back to the barn.

“Yeah. Get a whole bale; Winter eats plenty.”

“Roger, Cap.”

Steve had his eyes on the horses, and didn’t reply to the joke.

Sunny squealed again, but Winter’s teeth snapped, and he backed off hastily, lowering his head to snuffle at the snow. Val moved in then, and this time there was no squealing on either side, just them standing with their noses touching for a while, occasionally nickering softly.

By the time Sam came back, Sunny had dropped down for a roll, grunting and thrashing in the snow, while Winter and Val still talked quietly.

It surprised Steve, how much they were acting like old friends, when Winter and Sunny were the ones who’d been stabled beside each other.

When Sam flung flakes of hay over the fence, making three piles, Sunny scrambled to his feet and bolted down the fenceline, throwing up snow. Val spun to chase after him, and Winter only hesitated a moment, before he too followed.

Steve was smiling suddenly, feeling the tremor in the ground from the three sets of racing hooves. Winter passed Val, and was neck-and-neck with Sunny as they swept round into a long curve back toward the humans.

“Go, Winter!” Sam yelled.

Sunny was a mostly quarter horse, and in better shape than Winter, but Winter stayed with him, pushing him, until they swept back up to the gate, and slammed on the brakes in a spray of snow.

“Attaboy!” Steve called. “You be all right with these two now?”

Winter snorted a cloud of steam and tossed his head at Steve, almost like a kid waving their hand. _Of course, you can go._

He grinned, noticing how Val laid back her ears at Sunny, chasing him to another pile of hay, while she and Winter settled down at one together.

“They’re sure friendly,” Sam commented, as he turned his wheelbarrow toward the barn, and Steve fell in beside him.

“Yeah, they are.” Steve glanced over his shoulder, firmly squashing something that almost felt like jealousy. “But that’s good. He’s looking more and more like a normal horse every day.”

“Don’t worry.” Sam gave him a crooked sort of grin. “I don’t think you have to worry about him ever being completely normal.”

Steve thought of the way Winter had reacted the other day when he’d walked past his stall absently twirling a riding crop—the way he had frozen, eyes riveted on Steve, until he’d walked past. But he also thought of the way Winter always tried to get as close to Steve as possible, the way he normally looked at him, the way he followed Steve. His level of devotion Steve had only ever seen matched in Bucky; sometimes Winter’s seemed almost… more.

“No, probably not.” Steve smiled. “But that’s not always a bad thing.”

**

“So, what’s the next step to riding him?”

Steve actually took his foot off the gas and looked over at Sam, before he turned his attention back to the road; they were headed for the mill to pick up a load of feed.

Sam gave a little laugh. “We all know you want to ride him, and it doesn’t seem so impossible now, does it? You’ve worked pretty near a miracle. You’ve got him in crossties being groomed, you’ve got him turned out with other horses, you’ve got him comfortable with tack being in a close proximity, as long as no one tries to put it on him. But what’s the next step?”

“Well, first this rain could let up.”

The windshield wipers set a steady pace, as Steve braked for a stop sign, before turning left onto the main street. Cold rain had settled in again as February bumped January into the past. The horses hadn’t been out much, and Steve thanked God for the indoor riding ring, where they could at least train, and sometimes let the horses run free when they needed it.

“No kidding,” Sam sighed, leaning forward to turn up the heat a little more. “It’s been almost a week since Falcon got out. I’d ride him to work, but since the temp drops at night it’s usually–”

“A skating rink,” Steve said. “You know, I like cold weather. No flies! But I have never thought that ‘cold’ and ‘rain’ should mix.”

“Amen. But what about Winter? And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Ponying him. On the trails, as soon as we can. That way he can build up some more muscle and stamina, and he can start getting used to people being around him and above him on other horses. If he can get used to that, and not get scared or hurt, that should be a big step.”

“And then?”

Steve kept his eyes on the road as he slowed to let a dairy truck haul out of a driveway ahead of him. “Then I ride him.”

“Bareback or saddle first?”

Steve grinned. “Clearly you’ve been thinking about this too.”

“A little.” Sam shrugged. “I’m just curious about how you’re gonna do this. I mean if we’re operating under the assumption that he’s been ridden before by someone nice, but then was abused horribly, it makes for some challenges.”

“No kidding. I was thinking we could go for saddle first, like I often do with young ones. You know, let them take all the bucks out on the saddle which they can’t hurt, and then they’re way chiller about you being up there too. But he’s way too shy of it.”

“So, it’ll probably be ‘hop on and hope he doesn’t kill you’.”

“He won’t-!”

“Sorry!” Sam held up a placating hand. “Too bad it’s winter, or you could do it in the water.”

“Yeah.” It was an old Native American trick, mounting a horse for the first time in the water, which helped to slow the animal’s movements and make for a calmer transition, not to mention being a lot more comfortable to fall into. “That would be awesome.”

“But you don’t want to wait.”

Steve sighed. “Do you think I should?”

“Do you have another plan?”

“Well, yeah. I was thinking if I did it, if I backed him, out on the trails somewhere, away from fences and buildings, make it as different from what I imagine it was like for him with the people who hurt him, that would help. Like…” Steve took a deep breath. “If we were out on the trails, once we've gotten him used to being ponied and having me on another horse beside him, if we're in a good open space of trail, or maybe in a valley, I’d just… switch horses. And let the chips fall wherever.”

He wondered what Winter’s back would feel like between his legs, how much he would feel the scars through his jeans. Or would he even notice that?

Sam was quiet for a minute thinking, while the radio played:

_I’m a little bit steady_

_But still a little bit rolling stone_

_A little bit heaven_

_But still a little bit flesh-and-bone…_

“Yeah,” he finally said. “That could work. It’s a risk, but anything with horses is a risk. ‘Life is a risk, that’s what makes it fun.’” Sam gave a little grin. “Something Ri used to say.”

“He’s not wrong.” Steve turned into the yard of the mill, heading straight for the loading dock.

“What kind of time frame are you thinking?” Sam asked, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Take it slow, of course. But before spring. Definitely before spring. If the weather will let me.”

They stepped out into the steady downpour, pulling up the hoods of their slickers, before they ducked under the overhang that covered the bed of the truck.

“Feels like spring is already here,” Sam joked, splashing his feet in a puddle.

“Come on, sonny,” Steve grinned back, as he went to hit the buzzer by the smaller overhead door. “Stop playing and do some work.”

By the time they had finished loading all the bags into the bed, the rain had eased off and the sun was actually attempting to peep through the clouds.

Sam, sniffing at the breeze that annoyed them as they tarped the load, called to Steve: “Smells like a change in the weather!”

“Here’s hoping so!” Steve replied, flinging the end of a wet rope at his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted:  
> 'Burning Man' by Dierks Bentley


	18. Leaps and Bounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My boss always says, "Life is a series of interruptions," and boy is that true. Ari, I am truly sorry this took so long. Hope it's worth it. <3<3

It was a beautiful morning.

Clear sky, cold air, no rain for a week, so dry ground.

Steve knew as he crossed the farm yard, pausing to assess the weather, and take some deep draughts of the air that startled him sometimes with its freshness. He looked up to the mountains, the sun already touching the closest peaks. Yeah, it was the perfect day.

The perfect day to ride Winter.

Okay, hopefully it would be a ride and not a rodeo. Steve wasn’t that worried for himself when it came to sticking on; he’d backed so many horses bareback, including Bucky, that the ability of hunkering down to ride out a tempest had been well pounded into him. Quite literally.

Steve gave himself a minute to stand and absorb the idea. _Today I’m going to ride Winter._ He would need to keep him emotions well in check, and probably not tell anyone else exactly what he was planning. Winter could read people better than any horse Steve had known, and he needed to treat this like any other day.

Nick’s truck hauled up the driveway, later than usual, and Steve shook himself, threw up a hand in a wave. “Sleep in?” he asked, joining the older man at the office doorway, moving to power the computer up, as Nick made a beeline for the coffee machine.

“Sorry, Cap.” Nick stifled a yawn. “Carol called last night. Time difference.” Carol was Nick’s unofficially adopted daughter, who worked for the government.

“Where is she these days?”

“Down Under.”

“Umm.” Steve was distracted by an email from Three Circles in Montana asking for four fresh stock horses first week of May. He’d worked with them before and they always payed top dollar, but at the moment he only had Sunny for a stock horse. He’d have to do some shopping.

March was usually when horse business started to pick up, but he hadn’t checked on sales since New Year’s. He should find a couple within driving distance. His fingers hurried over the keys, pulling up a Google search. He was humming to himself.

**

They saddled up shortly after lunch, four horses in crossties, with Winter in the aisle behind Valkyrie so Steve would pass him with the tack over his arms, deliberately letting leather brush against scarred sides. He’d come a long way in the last month. No more jerking away or staring with round, fear-filled eyes. The wariness had all bled away, replaced with careful curiosity.

Once Val was all set, Steve clipped a pair of rope reins to the side rings on Winter’s halter, and quickly braided the buckle into a chunk of mane at the horse’s withers. A trick his father had taught him for holding reins in place without a saddle. He’d first done that with Winter a week and a half ago.

Steve left the barn first leading Val and Winter. A soft _‘whoa’_ and _‘stand’_ were all both horses needed, and they both stood still as Steve went through the next part of the regimen, though he’d only started this four days ago. Quietly, he shrugged out of his coat, gave it to Winter to sniff, then began to rub it gently against the horse’s sides. He draped it over Winter’s back, resting his hands on Winter’s spine, the way he would as if he were about to mount. Leaning forward, he let his arms slide across the coat, letting more of his weight rest on them.

Winter kept his head turned, watching Steve, but his ears were forward, his eyes steady. “All right, Winter!” Steve praised, rubbing his hands over Winter’s opposite side, pleased at the light layer of fat that covered his ribs. “Yeah, it’s not all that scary, now is it. I promised you I’d never hurt you, and I’m gonna keep that as far as I can. See? It’s just me and it’s all good. You’re brilliant, Winter, you’re awesome. Thatsa boy.”

When Winter finally breathed out a long sigh, and his back relaxed, Steve smiled and pulled away.

“Looking good!” Sharon called, as she swung up onto Peggy’s back; Sam was already mounted.

Steve vaulted up into his own saddle, and leaned over to slip the pony strap through the ring on Winter’s halter. He folded the ends in his gloved hand (left today), securing his grip.

The first time he had taken Winter’s lead (working him with the pony strap could wait), and mounted Valkyrie, Winter had shot backwards a good six feet, staring as if Steve had turned into a mountain lion. It took five long minutes to talk him steady.

Steve clicked his tongue and gave Val a squeeze; Winter fell into step with her. Sharon swung Pegasus ahead of them, as they headed down the farm lane away from the ranch buildings. Sam was whistling as he brought up the rear, a triumphant marching tune, before breaking off into song: “…but the church of Jesus, constant will remain.” Steve hummed along. They had sung that hymn in church yesterday, no wonder Sam had it for an earworm.

Tess had been trotting on Val’s other side, but as they passed the indoor arena she fell behind. Steve turned to give her a little wave. “Don’t worry, pup. We’ll be back soon.”

The sun was warm on his cheeks, even as the air nipped at his nose, and Steve let himself sway with Val’s walk, the butterflies that kept rising in his stomach at the thought of what he planned to do today finally settling.

From the start, being out on the trails, riding up into the mountains, had made Winter happy. He would toss his head, and suck in great breaths of the air, and he loved the gallops, pushing Valkyrie as his wind strengthened.

Speaking of gallops, Steve was going to want a place with a good straightaway, but not too wide open, in case Winter decided to bolt on him. “Hey,” he called ahead. “Change of plans. Let’s do Sleepy Hollow instead of the ridge.”

“That’ll add almost twenty minutes to our ride,” Sharon called back after a moment’s thought.

“Who cares?” Sam threw in. “Riding is living and I want to live as long as possible.”

Sharon laughed. “Sleepy Hollow it is then.”

**

Sleepy Hollow had been named by Steve as a kid. It was a narrow valley, maybe 20 feet wide, and knee-deep in grass in the summer, thanks to the stream that ran down one side. The track was level for a good half-mile, with only a gentle curve, and this would be the first time Winter had been there. Doing the math in his head, Steve also calculated it would be their longest ride; hopefully that would lend to taking the edge off Winter before they got there.

Steve talked to Winter as they rode, as they cantered up easy hills, as they picked their way across a month-old slide that had covered most of the trail. Winter was pretty amazing with how quickly and surely he could move, even among the rocks, hardly hesitating with a single step, and never stumbling. He seemed to understand the praise in Steve’s voice, and tossed his head when they paused on the other side of the mess, letting the other horses catch their breath and relax.

They all dismounted in the Hollow, Steve pulling out Valkyrie’s bit to let her graze on the brown grass; the others did the same. Sam had brought some snacks in his saddle bags, and they sat on the bank of the stream to nibble trail mix and Girl Scout shortbread cookies. Steve only took a couple handfuls of trail mix, then sat quietly, half-listening to Steve and Sharon’s discussions about diesel vs gas, Chevrolet vs Ford, and why certain horse scenes in movies worked vs those that didn’t.

Steve was watching Winter, analyzing the ways Winter could react to Steve on his back, and the ways Steve would need to respond. He was also praying. _Lord, I suddenly realize, You’ve helped me out a lot with Winter. And I want to say thanks. And please be with me again here. Let him be okay, and I guess, let me be okay too. And I should probably stop just sitting here thinking about it, and actually_ do _this. Here goes._

Actually switching horses in the middle of a ride on a mountain trail, like Steve had originally suggested, wasn’t a wise idea. He needed to just do it.

Steve said nothing to his companions as he got up, and wandered quietly over to Winter, who was standing only a few yards away, keeping his watch on Steve and the other horses. “Hey,” was all he said, offering half a cookie. Winter’s lips and breath were warm on his palm.

As he had back at the farm yard, Steve shrugged out of his coat, and went through the motions of sacking him out with it. This time he spent a little longer leaning on him, trying to apply almost the same pressure he would when mounting. Winter stayed chill, though he watched Steve intently the whole time. The way his ears pricked made it clear he was beginning to notice something was different. Steve knew he needed to make his move, before the questions turned to worries.

He pulled his coat back on, and busied his fingers undoing the braid and freeing the reins. He thought of Winter at the auction, nose to nose with Steve, and the surrender as he dropped his head, listening to the young man’s voice.

“You and me, Winter,” Steve told him now. “Okay? It’s just you and me.”

He let out a slow breath, smoothed his right hand down Winter’s spine, and with a light spring vaulted up.

Winter was moving before Steve had even touched down, but he was prepared for that, used to it from other horses. Still, Winter was the quickest he’d met, and Steve barely caught himself, landing mostly on Winter’s rump.

Another heartbeat later, he was settled, legs firm on Winter’s sides, hands buried in his mane, putting no pressure on the reins, holding them only in one hand as he bent low over Winter’s neck.

Winter spun, so quick Steve slipped again, recovered. The horse’s head snaked around in the direction of Steve’s leg, and he barely pulled it back in time. Winter surged away, down the trail, before slamming on the brakes, and spinning again.

Steve was getting the feel for him now, just like he had that first day. He stayed low, stayed centred, and stayed talking.

“Hey, Winter, hey, now. Easy, fella. It’s okay we’re just gonna be able to go the same places now together you know? You and me okay, remember I said that. It’s alright I’m not gonna hurt you, I know I surprised you but I didn’t think you’d let me on otherwise and it was either this or the saddle first, but I figured you’d like me better than a saddle and if you can take me you can take a saddle. Right, boy?”

The words came a little jerky, a bit breathless, according to the way Winter was moving, but Steve kept his tone even, knowing he had to be the steady one. And trusting Winter, like Winter had trusted him.

The backbreaking sideways jumps transitioned into a more forward motion, and Steve looked to Winter’s ears, flickering back and forth between Steve’s voice and the echo of old memories, old pain.

“You can take anything, you know you could take a thunderstorm if you needed to, I’ll bet. Easy easy easy easy easy. It’s just me, Winter. It’s just me. Just you and me.”

There! The moment when both ears cocked back, the choppy hoof placement smoothed out, and a long shiver seemed to pass through Winter from nose to tail. The trot fell to a walk, and Steve let his right hand stroke the thick hair on his neck, pressing his cold bare fingers through to the warmth of the horse’s skin.

“See?” he breathed, still bent low, but letting the tension bleed out of his own shoulders. “See, we’re fine. It’s me. It’s just me.”

Of his own accord, Winter stopped still, and craned his head around, but his ears were forward, and he only sniffed at Steve’s boot. Unable to hold back a smile, Steve slowly sat up, Winter staring with one wide eye.

The trail ran ahead of them, curving around the side of the foothill, and Steve didn’t think twice about squeezing Winter’s sides gently, clicking his tongue. Winter hesitated a moment, before he walked forward.

Steve still was putting no pressure on the halter, and it took his breath away when Winter sprang suddenly into a fast canter. Steve sat deep into the rocking rhythm, sucking lungfuls of mountain air, and then he was laughing. Loud, echoing off the mountains.

And Winter was running, full out, but not like he was running away from anything. He was just _running,_ galloping strong and steady, the wind of his own making sweeping Steve’s hat from his head, only snagged by the stampede strap. Steve leaned forward, hands buried in Winter’s mane, squinting as the sun and wind pulled tears from his eyes.

Ahead the trail sloped steeply up to the left, and Steve shifted his weight back, preparing to put some pressure on Winter’s head. The slightest touch was all it took, for Winter to slam on the brakes, sliding to a stop. Steve had barely turned his head and shoulders to look back in the direction they had come from, when Winter spun on his hindquarters.

Again, Steve found himself laughing, amazed at the intuitive response. He leaned forward and once more they were moving.

The ground blurred under Winter’s hooves, and for a moment Steve closed his eyes, ducking his head into Winter’s mane, trusting Winter to carry him safely.

They were _flying._

**

Steve wasn’t usually one for extravagant displays of feeling, but when he slid off Winter’s back in the farmyard (they had worked on mounting and dismounting a few more times on the trail), he had to steady himself with a hand on Winter’s shoulder. Winter was warm and smelled sweetly of horse and cold air; he turned his head to nicker at Steve.

“Hey,” Steve managed to say. Where had the lump in his throat come from? “Hey, boy. Hey, Winter.”

And then his arms were around Winter’s neck, and his face was buried in Winter’s mane, and where were these tears coming from?

A hand touched his shoulder, and he heard Sam’s low voice. “Hey, man. You alright?”

Steve nodded his head vigorously, even as a sob shook his shoulders. Sam tugged at him gently. “Come here.”

Trying to swallow back the wave of emotion, Steve let go of Winter and let his friend pull him into a tight hug. “Sorry,” he choked into Sam’s shoulder. “Sor-ry.”

Sam just laughed. “It’s okay, Steve. You did it. You rode him. It’s crazy. Remember when he wouldn’t let people into the corral with him? And now he’s snuffling your shirt ‘cause he’s worried about you.”

As quickly as he had cried, a snort broke out of Steve, and he let go of Sam with one arm and turned his head to look at Winter. “I’m okay, boy,” he sniffled, brushing his hand across Winter’s cheek, and Winter nuzzled his fingers.

Sam gave him one more squeeze before he stepped back, leaving one arm around Steve’s shoulders. But Steve moved to pull his friend back in for a hard, fierce hug that made Sam go, “Uh!”

“You helped, you know,” Steve told him, letting go, and wiping his hand across his face.

Sam grinned. “If you say so.”

Then Sharon was there, throwing up her hands for a high-ten.

“Yes!” she cheered, but their laughter was cut off by Winter snorting and throwing his head up, pulling away as far as he could without moving his feet.

“Hey, hey,” Steve soothed, moving quickly to rub a hand on his neck and settle him. “We’re just all crazy… crazy proud.” He bit his lip, gazed into the dark brown eyes. “Crazy proud. Of you.” Once more he stepped in to wrap his arms around Winter’s neck. He closed his eyes and stood for a while, the two of them breathing in tandem. The smell of horse and happiness surrounded Steve, a warm blanket of hope. And the words that floated to his lips were, _“Thank You.”_

**

“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. Happy Anniversary.”

Carefully Steve arranged the brightly coloured flowers in front of the stone. He brushed his fingers across the names, then stood straight, burying his hands in his jacket pockets and bowing his head under the drizzling spring rain.

“I hope you guys are doing okay. Have you had a chance to see how well Winter is doing? I was right about the saddle being easy, once he knew I could be on his back without hurting him. He still jumps at some things, and he’s always cautious of strangers. But he’s doing amazing.

“Speaking of strangers, we haven’t had any more trespassers, so I’m hoping that’s the end of it, people coming out of his past. I want to keep going forward, you know?”

Steve paused, shifted his weight, shook water off his Stetson. What other news did he want to share?

“Ranch is doing alright, got some good horses for Three Circles. Took them over to Sharon’s first thing this morning. One of them was spooky, but that’s why I got five. What you always said, Dad. The other four worked fine, one is real cowy. Could make a show cutter.

“Oh, Sharon is still looking for her wedding dress. I told her she’ll look beautiful in anything, most of all in jeans and a ratty t-shirt. Good news is she laughed, and kissed me, but she still wants to find the perfect dress. She and her mom had gone to Boise twice already. She’s prayed about it, and so have I, but hey, Mom? Mind asking Jesus for some help too?

“Oh, and speaking of the wedding, I’m definitely riding Winter home from the church. I’ll have some stuff to get him used to, of course. But he can do it.”

Steve hesitated a moment, before he smiled, feeling almost shy. “He trusts me. I mean, he _really_ trusts me. Sometimes it feels like he can read my mind, he just knows what I’m going to do, even before I ask him to do it. I don’t know why or how, it’s almost weird. But in a totally amazing way of course.

“Anyway, I’m meeting some of the old gang from school for lunch at Thor’s. Apparently, they like to do it after someone gets engaged, but I’m the first from my grad class.” Steve couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

“Guess I better go. See you, Mom. Dad. In a little while.”

He tipped his hat, and jogged away, back to the warm dry truck where Tessa waited.

**

There were a few restaurants in Fernwood, but everyone agreed that Thor’s Hammer Bar and Grille had the best ribs. Steve knew as soon as he walked in and got a whiff of barbecue what he would be ordering.

Sam was already there and waved him over.

Most of these guys Steve didn’t see much anymore, between running the ranch and, well, running the ranch. There was Scott, an apprenticing electrician trying to shake a juvie record; the two Peters, Parker who worked with the Herald, and Quill who lived with his folks and liked to karaoke; the big guy everyone still called Dum-Dum, on leave during his second year with the military, and of course, Tony Stark. Tony’s dad was kinda famous because he owned a share in the Seattle Mariners, and his son was… kinda annoying because he liked to brag and throw his weight around. He and Steve had never gotten along well, and after an incident in their sophomore year, it had become a unanimous decision among teachers not to put Tony and Steve together for team projects. His best friend Rhodey, who had joined the Air Force the previous year, was not on leave, “…but he sends his regards,” Tony drawled.

“Well, send him mine,” Dum-Dum said, lifting his drink in a toasting gesture.

The food was great, and it was fun to catch up with these boys he’d gone through school with. He saw Parker and Dum-Dum at church, but didn’t usually talk much. Mostly they talked about trucks, sports, and work environments.

It was Tony who leaned toward Steve and said, “So I heard you have a killer horse at your place.”

Parker snapped his head around. “Oh, I wanted to ask you about that. I heard he was doing better, and thought I could do a piece on you.”

“Didn’t he put you in the hospital?” Scott interjected. “I’d never go near a horse again after that.”

“Can’t be any worse a killer than my drill sergeant,” Dum-Dum snorted into his beer. There was a general laugh.

“He is not a killer!”

A startled silence fell, and Steve sank back in his seat, suddenly embarrassed by his outburst. But he hated that word with a sudden heat, like he hadn’t before. Because was that to be the tag Winter carried among other people for the rest of his life? Would people only ever remember the bad things, only see the scars? Maybe if it was someone from the horse’s past, who had only ever seen that side of him, Steve might be able to forgive it. But this was small town gossip, about an incident that had happened half a year ago.

A nudge in the ribs from Sam, and he took a deep breath, looked up. “He’s the best horse I’ve ever had. He was horribly abused by someone, yes, and he’s got the scars to prove he survived. Maybe it has taken time, and maybe he has lashed out a few times, but I trust him completely. He would never intentionally hurt anyone.”

“All the better for a story.” Parker slapped a hand on the table, and the awkward hush broke.

“You mean it?” Steve asked, a little doubtful, as the others went back to talking about the Mariners.

“Sure. If the story is good enough.”

Sam grinned. “Oh, it’s a doozy. We found him at an auction, and he was going after a guy who he really might have killed, if Steve hadn’t stepped in and gentled him down. Honestly it was like watching something out of a movie.”

“He was terrified,” Steve said quietly. “We’ve put together some pretty good theories about what might have been done to him. But I just… couldn’t abandon a horse who looked at me like that. I’ve heard horses scream, but he was silent. It was… in his eyes.” He spoke to the table, watching the Coke swirling in his glass.

“So, Steve brought him home, and he’s gone from not letting anyone so much as come near him to letting Steve ride him, and everyone groom him.” Sam sounded proud, as he reached to give Steve a noogie.

Parker was leaning forward, listening intently. “Wow. That’s… amazing.” He gave Steve a quick grin, before putting his business face back on. “The Double-R is well known. It would be a great human-interest piece. Could put it in a couple horse mags too. Any pictures or video evidence?”

“Pictures, yeah,” Steve nodded.

“I’ve got some video.” Sam shrugged at Steve. “Seriously, what happened in the sale barn wasn’t something I get to witness every day. And I’ve got some other stuff, you grooming him, and you riding him a couple weeks ago.”

Steve was honestly surprised. It would be… odd to see the events at the auction from another perspective; the actual sequence of events had kinda blurred for Steve.

“So, whaddaya think?” Parker was looking expectantly at him.

Steve hesitated a minute. _But it’s just Parker, with his camera and recorder. He’s a good guy, you know you can trust him._

_And besides. Who’s gonna tell Winter’s story if you don’t?_

“What day works for you?”

“Next week…” Parker had his phone out, checking a schedule. “Monday morning?”

“Cool.” Steve stuck out his hand, and they shook.

“Doing a deal with the devil?” Quill interjected genially.

“Nah, just Saint Peter,” Tony drawled.

**

It was a good story, running first in the Fernwood Herald, and then appearing in a couple different horse magazines. Steve smiled at the main headline in the April 5th edition of the Herald: _A Winter’s Thaw: Young Rancher Gentles Dangerous Horse_. “Look at that, boy.” Steve held it up so Winter could see the big picture of them beside it. “You look good. For a furry bear. Hey, I’m just teasing.”

Steve imagined Winter rolling his eyes as he snorted a little. _“I know that, doofus.”_ He then gave a startled groan, as he realized the voice he’d given Winter in his head sounded just like Christoff from _Frozen._ Which was probably why he found himself singing, “Reindeers are better than people…” under his breath, as he perused a virtual stack of emails. Everything from a fear of trailers, to trouble having feet handled, to a couple dramatic auction rescue stories. Steve sat back, a little amused. Thanks to the publicity, he might have to start a waiting list; they hadn’t had that since his dad was around.

He supposed that he also shouldn’t be surprised when, a couple days after the Herald article, a squad car came up the drive. The clouds at sunrise had blown away, and a lazy breeze had settled in, probably for the rest of the day. He was just dismounting in front of the barn, after an hour working Winter in the round pen.

It had been another four weeks now since he had ridden Winter for the first time, and the wonder of it still hadn’t faded. The last of Winter’s reserves had fallen that day, and now the flow of trust ran both ways, unhindered. Only a week later, he had gone under saddle, and now Steve could ask him to do just about anything, and he would not hesitate. Flying along the ridge, the wind of their own making melding them into one, or riding to the Rainbow Falls with Sam and Falcon, enjoying the warm sunny days of spring together.

Steve looped the reins around the horn, and reached to loosen Winter’s girth, letting him relax a little more while Steve dealt with… whatever this was going to be about. He saw Aunt Winnie come round the corner of the house, stripping her gardening gloves off, but he gave her a wave to show he had it covered.

The driver was a dark-skinned guy Steve didn’t recognize, but Sergeant Hill stepped out of the passenger side, and Steve gave her a nod.

“Steve.”

“Ma’am. Maria,” he added quickly, and she actually laughed.

“Wonders never cease, I see.” She nodded to her partner. “This is Deputy Gabe Jones. Gabe, Steve Rogers.”

“So. Coulson finally got his promotion.” Steve grinned as he shook the new man’s hand. “Welcome aboard.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says when they see me with her.” He nodded at Sergeant Hill. “Call me Gabe,” he added.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Steve reached back to Winter, who snuffled his palm, lipped at his bracelet, and then stepped forward to rub his sweaty head against Steve’s back. Normally that was considered a bad habit, but Steve was guilty of spoiling Winter occasionally, and he just braced himself and leaned back into it.

“To be honest, it’s mostly curiosity, though you could call it a follow-up call.”

“Wanted to see the miracle horse,” Gabe added.

“Don’t try to tell me that’s him,” Hill said, nodding at Winter, then she frowned, inspecting him more closely. “Is it? Is that… Winter?”

Steve took a moment replying, relishing Gabe’s phrase: _‘The miracle horse.’_

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

He turned to pull off Winter’s hackamore, letting the horse rub his bare head on Steve’s shoulder a little more, and he tried to let himself see Winter the way they did.

Hill at least had been here the day Steve brought him home. When Winter had stood in the corral, watching them with an awareness so intense it was scary. He’d been dirty and thin, his mane and tail all straggly, covered in scars and fresh wounds. Too dangerous to touch, or even approach, branded as a killer. The picture of an animal at the end of its rope, almost begging for someone to end it all. Except for his eyes, which burned with the fear and the fire of a survivor.

Now he stood beside Steve, chin on Steve’s shoulder, still wearing his saddle, shaggy winter coat brushed clean, mane and tail trimmed neat, eyes bright, ears pricked toward the visitors, but relaxed, easy.

Gabe stepped forward, hand held out. Winter stepped back. But Steve touched his neck, murmured to him, and motioned Gabe closer.

“He’s okay, if I say it’s okay. Don’t reach for his head. Come around to his neck.

“Let him come to you,” Steve murmured, as Winter turned his head to sniff cautiously at Gabe’s arm. The young man’s face lit up.

“You have a horse?”

“Not me,” Gabe shook his head. “Always liked them though. Took some riding lessons when I was like, ten.”

Steve looked over at Maria, suddenly anxious, recalling the last time they’d spoken beyond ‘hello’s at church, and the threat left hanging over Winter’s head. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think he’s not the same horse.” She gave that smile that was half genuine, half professional. “I see no reason to consider him more dangerous than any other horse. I’d say you can stop worrying.”

Steve took in her words slowly, inhaled slow and deep. Let it out in a gusty sigh. “Thanks.”

She really did smile then. “I love nothing better than success stories in this job. Come on, Jones. We should head out.”

“Okay, Sarge.” Gabe scratched Winter’s withers one more time, reluctant to walk away. “He’s a good-looking horse, Steve. You should be proud. From what the paper said, you did a hell of a job.”

Steve looped one arm around Winter’s neck, looked down to those eyes that shone with trust and affection, and always that watchfulness. _Nick, Sam, Sharon, Uncle George, Aunt Winnie, Doc Barton…_ “Wasn’t just me. It’s never just me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted:  
> 'Onward, Christian Soldiers' written by Sabine Baring-Gould


	19. Family Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little dose of fluff, before... well, before things happen.

Spring went on working its magic on the mountains of Idaho as April rolled into May.

The church was booked, the dresses fitted, the invitations returned, the food lined up, and everything mapped out. Sharon had had a couple meltdowns, especially in the search for her dress, but the joy bubbling in her voice the day she called Steve to tell him she’d found it, made up for everything. Steve was very much not allowed to see it until the Big Day, but he was just happy for his girl. 

Steve, Nick, and Sam had their hands full with young stock to train and so-called ‘problem horses’. Steve helped a young lady whose barrel horse had developed a fear of crowds, to figure out it was his rider’s tensions rubbing off on him, while Sam took on a pony who had been hit by a car. When Steve and Uncle George took the five horses out to Three Circles (it was worth the drive for what they paid), Steve was immensely pleased when they took the one who wasn’t keen on cows too.

The Montana trip was great. Just him and Uncle George and Tessa hauling through the mountains, seeing everything bursting into spring colour. They could talk for two hours, then drive the next six in complete silence. Or they’d listen to the country classics station, singing along with almost all the songs. Last year, Nick had come too, and they had driven straight back home through the night. This time they slept at Three Circles and left in the grey misty dawn, rattling across the cattle gate with an empty trailer and full bank account.

They stopped for lunch right before the border, at a little roadside picnic place where a food trailer had set up shop, and Tess ran around sniffing things. The conversation changed over from Uncle George’s next wood-working project to wedding stuff. Uncle George snapped a picture of the two of them and sent it to his wife, telling her they’d be home in another three hours.

When he glanced up from his phone to see Steve watching him, he asked, “What?”

“Do you mind? And be honest with me.”

“Mind what?”

“Me and Sharon kicking you two out.”

Uncle George blinked at him, before giving an incredulous sort of laugh. “You invited us to _stay._ We’re the ones who are choosing to move to town.”

“I know, but–”

“Steve.” His uncle reached across the picnic table to grasp his wrist, effectively stilling him. “It’s always been your farm. Your buildings, your land, your home. Even if the reasons were… sad, with your mom getting sick and dying, we’ve loved living on the ranch with you. But it works for us to move back, and you and Sharon need some room of your own to stretch out in. So to speak.” Steve rolled his eyes at his uncle’s chuckle.

“And then of course you have Sam moving in in September, so it’s not like you’ll have time to miss us around the place. We’ll be there whenever you need us. That’s a promise.”

Steve gave the man a small grin, turning his hand to clasp Uncle George’s, albeit a little awkwardly. “I know. And I’m really, really grateful. For everything.”

“I know.” Uncle George was smiling at him. “Also, I’ve been meaning to say.”

He pulled his hand away to rub the back of his neck. “You don’t have to use the honorifics, you know. The ‘Uncle’, I mean. You’re not a kid anymore. You can call me ‘Uncle George’ till you die if you want to, but… it’s okay if you sometimes don’t have time for the ‘Uncle’.”

“I’ll always have time for the uncle,” Steve replied, grinning at his joke, even as he knew they both knew the seriousness behind it.

“Well, do you have time to drive so I can nap?”

“Old man needs his rest,” Steve kidded. He breathed deep as they stood up, gathered up their trash, walked to the bin to toss it in. As he scooped up Tess and set her in the cab, he looked up to the mountains again, never tiring of their vast grandeur.

“I lift up my eyes to the mountains,” he found himself murmuring as he swung into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition. “Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”

From the back seat, Uncle George quoted the rest of the Psalm, before he was out like a light.

Steve glanced over at Tess, as they pulled back out onto the highway. “How does he do that? Is it just something people over 50 can do? But I remember Dad doing it, so maybe you have to be over 50, or have kids. What do you think, girl?”

She gave him a single fleeting look, before staring back out the window.

**

Steve let himself relax, just a little, after the Three Circles trip. Sure, he was still crazy busy, but it was good work, work he loved, and he was doing it with people he loved.

It rained for the next few days, and on Saturday evening, Steve and Sharon left the older folks with the supper dishes, while they dashed out to do evening check-ups. Tess stayed on the porch. _No thank you,_ her expression said quite clearly, and Steve laughed.

“Okay, girl, we won’t be long. Promise.”

They splashed across the farmyard to the barn doors. “I’ll do outsiders,” Steve called from under the hood of his slicker.

Sharon shrugged, smiled at him. “Always a gentleman. I’ll tell Winter you’re busy.”

“Tell him I’ll hurry.”

Steve did hurry through the early evening darkness, flashlight in hand, checking on the pastured horses. They were all inside their shelters, chewing hay and staying dry. Three in the first field, four in the second, and the blue roan stallion named Cloud in the third. All where they should be.

He jogged back to the barn and stepped inside, shaking the rain off.

“Winter’s stall,” Sharon called, and Winter poked his head out over his door, nickering. Steve let himself in, stopping to rub Winter’s neck and murmuring soft things.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Sharon was standing at the horse’s flank with a comb in one hand and Winter’s tail in the other. “What does it look like?” She raised an eyebrow as if Steve wasn’t very bright.

He grinned back. “Yeah, but _why?”_

“Collecting more tail hair.”

Steve cocked his head, puzzled. “Again, why?”

Now she ducked her head, bit her bottom lip, and her embarrassment only added to Steve’s confusion. Before she said, “So you can make another bracelet. I’ve been collecting the last couple weeks, and I think I have enough.”

She let the long black tail fall, and turned, holding up her fist with several long black hairs in it. There was a light flush in her cheeks, and now Steve chuckled. “Let me guess: it was supposed to be a present. And you can keep any secret to the death, except for presents.”

She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, and man, was she cute when she did that. “Thanks.” He stepped forward, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She leaned against him. “I was gonna make the whole thing for you, but I remembered how you were so adamant about doing it yourself when you made Buck’s.”

Steve lifted his left hand, and they both stared at the black braid clasped around his wrist.

“Most people only get one horse,” Steve remarked quietly. “Why do I get two?”

“Why does anyone get anything?” she answered back. “Because God sees fit to give it to us.”

Steve smiled as he wrapped both arms around her, rested his cheek on her hair, smelled her shampoo and horses and hay. “Love you forever,” he whispered.

“Love you for always,” she answered. Then: “Hate to break up the moment, but we should probably head in.”

“Yes, dear.”

They ran back across the yard, Sharon’s bundle of horse hair stashed safely in her coat pocket. Tess greeted them enthusiastically from her look-out on the top step, giving squeaky little whines, and wagging all over. “You’d think I’d been gone for a year,” Steve chuckled, bending to kiss the top of her head, and scratch her ears in the way she liked best.

The stepped into the warm, dry, golden light of the house, and Steve felt warm all over as he pulled off his slicker and shucked off his boots, smelling coffee, and hearing voices laughing in the living room.

Nick had stayed for supper, and he and Aunt Winnie had started a game of backgammon. Uncle George was on the couch watching another episode of M*A*S*H, and sketching carving designs in a notebook.

It was lovely to settle down at the other end of the couch, with a cup of decaf and Sharon on the floor leaning against his legs. Tess sprawled on the carpet and was soon asleep.

Steve fingered the thick, mostly smooth hair from Winter, before digging in the little bag of his mother’s bracelet making supplies. She was the one who had taught him to make horsehair bracelets. Steve had made… five in all. His first for Nick, with hairs from different horses on the ranch. Second, his own of Buck’s hair. Then Sharon’s from Peggy, one for a girl named Rhianna—whose horse Jasper had stopped letting her anywhere near him, prompting her to bring him to the Double-R several years ago—and the last was for Sam, from Falcon.

Uncle George and Aunt Winnie were both quoting lines from the show, and making Sharon laugh. Steve loved that sound.

Nick was singing ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain’ under his breath, and Steve hummed along as he set to work evening out the long hairs, before looping them through a pin he stuck in the arm of the couch and starting to braid.

Steve liked the feeling of weaving three strands under and around each other, fingers moving quick and sure. It made him think of his mom, her hands guiding his, back when he was maybe eight years old. She had let him braid her hair too.

Tessa twitched in her sleep, dreaming, and her little yelps made Steve snort. Nick lost the game of backgammon and demanded a rematch. Sharon moved to curl against Steve’s side, read a story on her phone, and hold things when he asked her. Sam texted stupid memes his brother was sending him.

When the bracelet was finished, he let Sharon put it around his wrist and do up the clasp, a second strand of glossy black hair.

Sharon ran her thumb over them both. “Buck was a bay too.”

Steve half-smiled. “Maybe I have a type.”

“But I’m a blonde.”

Steve couldn’t help laughing outright at her, and he wrapped an arm around her, kissed the top of her head. “You’re not my type. You’re not any type. You’re mine.”

Aunt Winnie was laughing at something Uncle George had said. Steve closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the couch.

Outside the rain went on falling.


	20. To Face a Fearful Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I was gonna drop this on y'all cold, but I will say that this showdown was pretty cool to write, after having it in my head for so long, and yes, I will update ASAP.

“So where are we headed today?”

Steve smoothed Winter’s saddle blanket into place and reached for his saddle as he looked over at Sam. “Where do you think?”

“Well, I _was_ thinking…” Sam leaned sideways against Falcon’s neck, and crossed his arms, grinning a little. “Now that the snow should be melted enough… we could…”

“Go to the old hermit’s cabin,” they chorused. Steve laughed as he tightened Winter’s cinch, running a couple fingers between it and Winter’s belly to make sure it wasn’t pinching.

Thanks to the trip to Three Circles, it had been almost a week since they’d been out on a long ride.

“Should we take a lunch, then? It’s a long trip up to the second range.”

Sam shrugged. “Sure, I’ll go toss some stuff in a bag.”

Steve whistled loudly as he buckled a couple saddlebags on, giving Winter a slappy pat on the neck. “How about a full-on trek, eh? Hermit’s cabin is way up in the second range to the north. Should be a good test. Think we can beat him?”

Winter nickered softly in response.

Steve led both Falcon and Winter out into the yard, where they waited in the warm late morning sun for Sam. Steve unzipped his hoodie, and absently rubbed a hand over each horse’s shoulder. Loose hairs drifted in the light breeze. “Really should take a shedding blade to you, Winter,” Steve remarked.

It took about fifteen minutes before the screen door banged, and Sam came jogging down the steps, a plastic bag in each hand.

“Ham sandwiches, apples, crackers, cheese, and extra water,” he rattled off.

“Perfect.” Steve tucked the apples and water bottle into one saddle bag, and the rest of the stuff still in the plastic bag into the other. “Let’s ride.”

**

There was no hermit living in the hermit’s cabin, and truth was no one knew for sure if there ever had been. But someone had built a little cabin, way up on the back of what was now RR land, tucked against a cliff with a spring twenty yards from the front door. Accessible only on horse, foot, or quad, it was the perfect place for anyone who wished to be a hermit.

The roof had started falling in when Steve was younger, but it could still serve as a good shelter for anyone who wanted to ride up that way. Right before he’d lost them, Steve and Buck and his dad and Viking had gone up to the cabin and camped for a whole weekend. They’d seen five bears, three bighorn sheep, some mountain goats, and even an eagle’s nest. It had been one of the best weekends of Steve’s life.

Sam was singing again, as they took a left at the first fork in the trail, and it struck Steve just how much of that he did now. A memory of the night when Sam had told him about almost committing suicide, came back to him. But he shook it off. That was the past, this was the present.

They rode for almost an hour, the horses climbing steadily and surefooted. Sometimes the boys sang snatches of John Denver or Luke Bryan or Citizen Soldier, sometimes just chatting, sometimes quiet. They topped the first range of hills and crossed a grassy, tree-scattered plateau on a diagonal, headed for the rockier second range.

They picked up a trail again as the ground started to rise, cliffs beginning to loom on one hand, and the trees getting shorter and scrubbier. The boys were quiet, and their horses breathed harder; the sun was hot on their heads.

Finally, they drew rein at a large pool to one side of the trail, where the stream came down from the spring by the cabin. Both humans and horses drank gratefully, and they sat for a few minutes, giving the horses a breather.

“Should be another ten minutes at most.” Steve adjusted his hat to shade his eyes, as he glanced up the trail, which continued its twisted way up the mountainside. “Surprised we haven’t run into more wildlife.”

“Bears heard he was acomin’,” Sam jerked a thumb at Winter, “and got outta Dodge.”

Steve snorted. “I never want him to have to fight a bear. But at the same time… he could totally beat a bear.”

“Don’t doubt it.” Sam hauled himself to his feet, rolled his shoulders, stretched his back. “Let’s do this.”

Steve hopped up, feeling a new wave of energy. “Last one up is a nincompoop!” he sang out, dashing to Winter’s side.

“No fair!” Sam yelled, not even reaching Falcon before Steve wheeled Winter, and they started up the path.

Steve was grinning as he leaned forward, urging Winter on only with his voice, and letting the horse have his head, so he could pick his own way across the uneven ground. He jumped straight into a hard canter, tucking himself neatly around the rocks in the next turn.

There was a short even stretch they covered easily, always on an upward climb, before another curve, and Steve saw immediately ahead a winter rock fall, completely covering the path. He sat straighter, prepared to check Winter, but the horse charged straight on, throwing himself at the heap of rocks.

Before a yell could escape Steve’s throat, just as they rose in the air, he realised that the fall was only maybe six feet wide, and they cleared it easily.

“Winter, you wonderful idiot!” he shouted, bending forward again.

Stones clunked against Winter’s hooves as they churned around the next bend, Steve riding light and tight and in-tune. Up, up, up again, and then Steve saw the tops of the scrubby cedars that grew around the cabin. With a last hard scramble, they burst up onto the plateau, Steve giving a yell of triumph.

“Hoo-yah!” He pumped his fist as Winter dropped to a walk, then leaned over to rub his neck hard. “Thatsa boy. That’s my boy.”

Winter stopped abruptly, and snorted.

Catching his breath, Steve followed the direction of his ears to the cabin. Half of the roof was still fallen in, and the porch was mostly rotted through. But what made Steve go as still as Winter, was the small wisp of smoke rising from the chimney.

Winter must have heard some noise from inside, because the next thing Steve saw was a man. Stepping into the doorway, and then just standing there. Staring.

So. Someone was… what, camping in? Holing up in? the hermit’s cabin. Maybe a hermit for real.

But Steve’s guard came up along with his curiosity. This wasn’t exactly normal, after all. Maybe this was some outlaw or criminal who’d found a place to chill for a while. He’d do well to be careful.

“Easy, Winter,” he murmured, taking up his reins again, and lifted one hand in a greeting. They’d been seen, totally announced their arrival. The only thing to do was go over and say ‘hi’. Maybe ask a few questions.

The uneasiness did not fade as they rode across the open ground; in fact, Winter was getting tenser by the minute, his nostrils flaring, his eyes on the strange man.

The man came down the rickety steps to meet them, and Steve couldn’t help his hands clenching a little tighter, when he saw the rifle the man held loosely at his side.

“Shoulda known bears wouldn’t make so much noise,” the stranger drawled as Steve came within easy earshot. Winter halted at once.

Steve took in the man’s appearance, liking him less and less. He was thin and grubby looking, wearing jeans and a faded black short-sleeved shirt open over his bare chest. He had a mess of black hair, a few odd scars on his face, and when his eyes met Steve’s, they narrowed.

Steve did not blink or flinch away, just nodded, and used the manners his folks had drilled into him. “Howdy. Nice day, isn’t it.”

The man smiled, and good grief, _that_ was creepy. “Oh, it’s one of the best I’ve had in a long time.”

 _What the heck?!_ _Okay, God, I have no idea who this guy is, but it all feels wrong, and just please keep us safe._

Steve was suddenly distracted by Winter beginning to shake. Even as he stood stock still, staring at the man, Steve could feel the tremors running through his horse’s muscles. His hand went down to press flat against the top of Winter’s shoulder blade, trying to provide some steadying pressure, remind him that Steve was here.

But Winter hadn’t trembled like this in months. He only did that when he was terrified…

Steve’s attention snapped back to the man, whose gaze had settled on Winter, as he reached up to rub a hand over his hair. The movement pulled his shirt open further, and Steve’s gaze instantly caught on his chest. Two pale lines, each as thick as Steve’s finger, crossed each other, forming an X across the stranger’s pecs.

Steve knew he was frozen, staring at those scars, staring until his eyes burned and he had to blink. His gaze jerked up to the man’s face, just as he grinned, teeth pale in his darkly stubbled face.

The word didn’t make it out of Steve’s throat the first time. He had to remind himself to breathe.

“Crossbones.” His voice sounded odd, flat. “That’s what they call you. Crossbones, the Blackbeard of horse-thieves.”

His smile was pleased. “Smart kid. You remember me.”

“You took them. You took him.” Steve still felt as if he were watching himself from a distance. “You killed my dad.”

“Killed? At the Double-R?” Crossbones looked puzzled. “Don’t remember that.”

And then Steve was back in his body, staring down at this man, heat beginning to ball up in his chest. “You took everything, and it killed him.”

“Oh, I might have read about that in the papers.” Crossbones shrugged. “I forget how many there are sometimes.”

Steve's fist closed around his lariat, coiled neatly around the saddle horn. He had nothing on himself for a weapon, except his knife, but a loop of rope could go a long way towards taking charge of a situation. He swallowed, his throat gone quite dry.

“You took my horse.”

“And you took mine.” Crossbones frowned, shrugged. “But hey. You brought him back like a good kid, saving me the trouble of raiding your ranch again. Didn’t expect it to be this easy.”

“What?” One stupid word, but Steve’s mind was racing. Anger, fear, shock, _Winter, Crossbones._

“Man, I hope you haven’t spoiled him. Since he’s letting you sit him, you must have.” He hawked and spat. “Killer was the best I ever had. But hey, at least you’ve put meat back on his ribs.”

“You… My gosh. _You_ hurt him. _You_ tried to crush him, _you_ tried to turn him into some kind of monster.”

Crossbones blinked, smirked. “'Course I did.”

 _The grinning skull face, claws tearing at Winter’s flesh, blood on the bone white teeth…_ Steve shook his head. “You’re the one who made Winter look like that.”

“Wait, what did you call him?” Crossbones tilted his head, amused.

“His name,” Steve spoke low and hard, “is Winter.”

Steve couldn’t help flinching when Crossbones exploded into laughter. _“Winter!_ Hahaha! You mean, you don’t _know?!_ Haha!” He slapped his thigh and Winter jerked, his head coming up, even as his feet remained planted.

It was that jerk that delivered the final blow, because _Winter was his horse and they were facing the man who had abused him._ And Steve snapped.

All the roiling emotions were buried under a wave of pure adrenaline.

His hands were on his rope, paying out a loop, a turn of his wrist…

Crossbones straightened with a jerk, his rifle snapping up to his shoulder. “Hey!”

Winter went straight up on his hind legs, springing sideways at the same moment, and Steve was falling, rope still in one hand.

A deafening ‘crack’ split the air.

He saw the ground coming, flung out one hand instinctively.

 _Mistake!_ He almost thought he heard the bone snap as the rest of his body came down on his braced arm. Or it could have just been the second gunshot.

He gasped a breath, jarred.

Winter screamed.

That raw, shrieking cry wrenched Steve to his feet, the world moving fast again. He staggered slightly, the first pain hitting him as his arm banged into his hip. Winter’s twisting form blurred.

Another shot, a yell. Winter rearing above a man, Crossbones.

_BANG._

And Winter came down on him.

 _“Winter!”_ Steve jumped forward, horrified that his horse had just been taken down with the last shot. But no, Winter was still on his feet, his front feet having come down on either side of the man’s head. He halted for a second, one hoof raised, to glance over at Steve.

Crossbones took the opportunity to roll away, pulling his legs under him, but one gave way, and Winter’s head swung back. A snap of his jaws at an arm, and the man yelped. The horse pawed the ground, striking Crossbones in the side. Hard.

“Winter!”

Steve was beside him, reaching for the reins with his good hand, prepared to pull Winter away. But he stepped back and reared again, eyes rolling. The edge of one hoof came down on Crossbones bicep.

Next moment there was a knife in the man's hand and he was lunging to slash at Steve’s legs, but Winter’s teeth snapped, and Crossbones pulled his bleeding hand back.

“Killer!” Crossbones panted, and Steve spared him a glance. His face was contorted with pain from what was likely a broken leg, but he was also… smiling strangely. “Ha. Still a killer. Knew I… trained him well.” He spread his hands, staring up at Winter. The rifle lay off to one side, the barrel bent and useless. “Give me your worst, Killer.”

Something rose up and choked Steve, and he had to swallow hard. Because it was terrible that a man should become so lost, so mad for power and violence and fighting. For a brief moment, Steve saw only a bent twisted shell, where a strong man had once been, and he knew Crossbones was not a man to be hated or feared. Only pitied.

“Steve!”

He had almost forgotten about Sam, but he did not turn toward the distant call. Only Winter mattered now. The horse was shaking all over, eyes wild, probably sweating under his thick winter coat. Steve pushed aside everything else, focusing on his horse’s eyes.

“Winter, hey, boy. Are you listening to me? Please, easy now fella easy easy it's okay now. Listen to me, I need you to listen to me. I know he hurt you.” Vision blurred for a second, but Steve blinked it away. “I know how much you want to crush him, destroy him, so he can’t hurt you ever again.”

He knew the words didn’t matter to Winter, but he always listened best when Steve meant what he was saying. “But if you do that, you’ll just be what he made you. You’re more than that, Winter. You’re the best horse I’ve ever known. Please just listen to me. Please, boy. It’s okay. I won’t let him lay a finger on you again. I promise. We’ll be safe.”

Crossbones had started laughing again, breathy and short; probably a broken rib under there. “Listen to him! You think that horse will back off once he smells blood? Come on, Killer. I trained you better than that. Killer!”

“No, you’re not, Winter. You just saved my life. Please listen to me, please.” Steve kept talking over him, and Winter was trembling harder now, his ears swiveling back and forth, torn, caught between the black, wretched voice of his past, and the strong, bright, loving voice of his now. One hoof remained poised to strike.

Crossbones moved first, hand flying up to slap at Winter’s leg. Steve saw it as if in slow motion, words choking in his throat, and without another thought he flung himself forward. He rammed against Winter’s chest, arms wrapping around his horse’s neck. Placing himself as the shield between Winter and his enemy.

Winter sprang backwards, and the world went grey.

Shouting.

He was hanging onto Winter with… one arm now.

He was saying his name over and over again. “Winter. Winter. Winter. Winter. Winter.”

He couldn’t lift his other arm. Everything sounded odd and fuzzy.

When his vision finally cleared, and he could blink up at the sky, he was also looking up at Winter’s nose. He was lying on the ground, a rock was pressing uncomfortably against his spine, and Sam was calling his name.


	21. To Hold a Fearful Hope

“No, hey, don’t get up.”

Sam knelt beside Steve, pressing a hand gently against his chest. For a moment Steve let himself take that in. Sam looked… odd, almost sick, his eyes wide. “Dude.” He sounded like he was having a hard time breathing. “Please don’t tell me that’s your blood.”

“I’m okay.” Seriously that rock was annoying, and other than a broken arm Steve didn’t think he was sporting any serious injuries. “Just let me up. This rock is killing me, and I can’t tell if it’s my blood unless I take a look.”

This time when Steve went to sit up, Sam did not stop him.

“I got him. That dude. Who the hell is he? I jumped on him. Probably knocked the wind out of him. Got him tied up with your rope. I mean, I’m assuming he’s a bad guy? If he wasn’t, that would be _really_ awkward–”

“Crossbones.” Steve was scanning Winter for obvious injuries, but could see none. On this side. And of course his still scruffy winter coat could hide things…

Sam blinked. “What?”

“That is Crossbones.”

“You mean the guy who-?”

“Yeah. And the guy who tortured Winter.” Steve got up slowly, steadying himself against Winter’s shoulder with his good arm. “Winter wanted to take him out. I had to stop him.”

“Okay, what’s wrong with your arm? And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Broke it.” Steve glanced down, noted the odd angle of his hand in comparison to his elbow. Oh, and there was blood on his sleeve and hand. “And I don’t know. Help me look over Winter.”

Holding his right arm as still as possible (it hurt, oh, dear Lord, it hurt, and that blood on his hand–), Steve walked around Winter’s rear, letting his left hand run over the horse’s body. He had his hand on the saddle when he noticed the first wound.

“Sam.”

It was messy, blood beginning to dribble down Winter’s leg from the tear across his shoulder.

“Sam, I need your shirt.”

A sharp intake of breath from his friend. Then: “His neck.”

That one was bleeding less, a quick examination revealing it to be a crease across his skin. “Not bad, but it’ll hurt like the dickens.” Steve swallowed hard, glanced to Winter’s expression. His breathing was short, but there was no other outward sign of pain. “Bullets,” he murmured. “You took those bullets for me.”

Winter turned his head to nuzzle Steve’s hand, nostrils flaring at the scent of his own blood, and Steve sucked in a sharp breath turning back to the shoulder. “This one’s worse. Shirt, please. I can’t take mine off, I think it’s a compound fracture.”

He _heard_ Sam swallow, and answered the question before it was asked. “There’s blood running down inside my sleeve, and that can’t be Winter’s.”

“Steve…”

The whisper was shaky, and Steve turned to actually look at his friend. His breathing was uneven, his eyes wide, and the arms he crossed tightly over his chest were trembling. He was fighting fear, and the fear was winning.

Working around horses all his life, Steve had been through many emergency situations, treated dozens of injuries, and maybe even helped save a life or two. From his teen years, he’d had to know how to stay cool, assess things, and then deal, as quickly as possible.

Sam was no coward, but he’d had his world cracked apart in one terrible bloody afternoon. He had memories of his own he had to fight. Somehow, Steve had to pull him out of that.

“Sam, look at me. I have a broken arm. I’ll be fine, just have to drag around a cast for a little while. Again. Huh, same one too. Thanks, Winter. But I’ll be _fine._ Sam, you are not helpless right now. You can _do_ something to help us all get home safe. Okay?”

Sam’s crossed arms relaxed, and he nodded. “Okay.”

“Gotta do something about this arm. And gotta check Winter over. Thoroughly. I heard four shots. That’s only two hits.” Both the wounds were now bleeding freely, especially the one on the shoulder, but not enough to concern Steve, at least until he knew there wasn’t anything else hiding under Winter’s still-shaggy coat.

“Well, your sweater is fitted so it’s doing a good enough job splinting it for now.” There, that was his Sam. “But you should get it in a sling at least.” The irony of it all being that Sam and Riley had taken their first-aid courses the spring before the accident.

“Got anything to make that with?” The throbbing in his lower arm was getting sharper—he didn’t dare try to wiggle his fingers; he might just puke—and Steve sucked in a slow breath, letting the pain spread through him, become just another part of him.

Putting the injured limb in a sling (crafted from Sam’s flannel shirt and some baling twine from one of Falcon’s saddlebags) was a nasty bit of business, but over before Steve could actually fear he was going to pass out. At Sam’s recommendation, they then bound the sling to Steve’s chest with a few loops of twine, making it more stable, and easier for Steve to move quickly. The worst of it couldn’t have lasted more than a couple minutes, but Steve was sweating as he turned back to Winter, swallowing the churn in his stomach.

Winter had stood quietly the whole time, his head close to Falcon’s. As Steve collected his wits, he finally noticed how his horse’s breathing had picked up.

“Sam, help me check him over.”

With a nod, Sam ducked under Winter’s neck to the other side. Steve moved quickly now, his focus returning. Neck, chest, shoulder, leg; so far so good.

That was when he heard Sam swear softly. “Um, Steve?”

Still squatting by Winter’s front leg, Steve turned his head to see Sam’s hand brush over Winter’s belly, well back of the cinch. His fingers came away red, and finally Steve saw the small but steady stream of blood, beginning to pool on the ground.

Sam was already tearing off his t-shirt, as Steve reached his side. Winter only twitched when Steve pressed a wad of the cloth to the wound in Winter’s belly. It was less than a span forward of his stifle, and Steve’s heart seemed to stutter at the realization: Winter had been shot in the stomach.

Probably. He couldn’t know for sure, but whatever the trajectory of the bullet, it would have plenty of concussive power that could cause enough damage. _Blood loss, abdominal infection…_

Sam was suddenly back; Steve hadn’t noticed when he left. He was still trying to think, to catalogue all the information he could, the way his dad had taught him.

“Found these in the cabin.” Sam held out a handful of not-too-dirty clothing.

Steve hardly heard him. He glanced to Winter’s head, saw the wrinkles above his eyes, and the backwards tilt of his ears; the only indication of pain. So far. He hadn’t gone into shock yet.

“You have to go.”

Sam blinked; mouth open as if Steve had interrupted him. “Go where?”

“The ranch. For help.” Steve felt as if he hadn’t taken a deep breath in a long time. “Sam, he’s bleeding bad. It’s not spurting, so no arteries hit, but we’re going to have to move, and that will make it worse.”

“Will he need surgery?”

“Yes–”

“Okay, we’ll make that happen.”

For a moment they stared at each other, and Steve gave a strangled sort of laugh. “Then go. Take the trail we came up. Ride as hard as you dare. Call Clint, call the police, and call Sharon. She’ll know where to go.”

“But how will you-?”

“There’s another trail, a little further up. But it’s all on state land. Sharon knows it; we used to ride there after Buck. There’s old logging roads in there, they can get up a truck and trailer. Tell Clint to bring his trailer. Winter and I will try to make it as far down as possible.”

“And you’re going to walk beside him, holding a bandage on it all the way?” Sam gave his head a sharp shake, and snatched at another length of twine. It only took a couple more minutes to rig up a kind of surcingle to help hold a wad of bandaging in place.

“Kay.” Sam gave it a last tug, nodded, and made a sudden detour to grab his hat, from where it lay near Crossbones. He whistled for Falcon, and swung up, jamming the Stetson on his head as he did so. He looked odd, wearing his hat, but no shirt, and he gave Steve the smallest of grins and a little salute, before he turned his horse, and they jogged away to the top of the path.

There was no time for Steve to watch him go. Winter made a sort of half-nicker after Falcon, but then went quiet again. “Hey, Winter,” Steve murmured. “I bet this all hurts something awful. But we’ll be okay. We have to walk. I hate it, I wish we didn’t, but it’s the only way down. No time to try to call for a helicopter that could take you off. And there’s no getting a trailer up here.” He ran his good hand down Winter’s side, checked the bindings again, trying to ignore the red that was soaking through the light blue fabric of half a shirt.

The other rags had been stuffed in the saddle bag on the same side as the wound, and Steve finally swallowed hard, and went to Winter’s head. He knew walking was their only real chance, even as he knew it would only make things worse.

Winter snuffled Steve’s sling and broken arm, before tucking his forehead against Steve’s good shoulder.

“But it’s our only chance. And I’m not giving up on you now, Winter. So, don’t you give up on me, ‘kay?” His voice broke, and he grit his teeth against the burn behind his eyes. He pulled away as gently as possible and sucked in a breath, mentally shaking himself.

As he went to grab his own cowboy hat from where it had fallen, he paused at the sight of Crossbones, still lying tied up in Steve’s lariat.

For a second Steve hesitated, then he marched quickly across to the prone man. He ignored the curses, and stared right into the man’s dark, hard eyes.

“He’s not a killer. And neither am I.”

Crossbones went silent. His lip was split and there was a bit of blood smeared down his cheek. There was something else pressing against the inside of Steve’s mouth, something else he thought he should say, but he heard Winter take a few steps toward him, and turned away abruptly. There was no time to explain, no time to think about this man and everything he had done.

Go. They had to go.

“Someone will come for you,” he called back.

_Go. Go. Go._

“Come on, Winter. Let’s go.”

**

That was the longest, most terrible walk of Steve’s life.

The sun was hot, except in the shadow of rocks, and Steve made Winter stop every 300 steps to drink a little water out of his Stetson. The smell of blood seemed to be everywhere, and Steve didn’t know if it was a bad thing that his arm seemed to have gone numb.

Winter stopped perking his ears at Steve’s voice, simply plodding ahead, one foot in front of the other, eyes half shut, trusting Steve to lead him. He had no idea how much blood the horse had lost. A horse could lose a few gallons before you needed to worry, he knew. He’d put a fresh bundle of torn clothing under the twine every time he saw the last was soaked through. He didn’t know if it was his imagination, but sometimes he thought it was flowing a little slower.

Steve lost track of time. He didn’t bother pulling his phone out of his sweater pocket to check. Time was their enemy, but distance was their obstacle. They just had to keep going, keep going, one foot in front of the other.

The first little bit, leaving the cabin plateau, was maybe the hardest; a steep uphill that they tried to take in zigzags. Then they went along the side of the mountain for a bit, the path rough and rocky, but manageable. Patches of snow still sat in some of the shadows, where the sun never reached, and Steve put some on the wounds on Winter’s neck and shoulder. Both were still bleeding, but not badly. Steve had glimpsed the white of bone in Winter’s shoulder, and guessed the bullet had taken a chip out. But that wasn’t the thing endangering Winter’s life.

After that, it was all downhill.

This was all state land, north of the RR, running down to the back of the next-door Harmons’ land. The evergreens (so far below, it seemed) were logged every five years. Of course this was one of the off years.

There seemed to be no noises, except the ones they made: stones clunking against hooves, gravel crunching under their feet, their ragged breathing, and Steve’s occasional murmurs; prayer was a constant in his head. Every now and then, when a foot would slip or he missed where he’d planned to put his hoof, a groan would escape Winter. But that was all.

Steve’s stomach growled at him, but he still felt nauseous, and decided against the sandwich. He nibbled on the crackers and an apple, sharing bits with Winter. He wondered if the bullet had torn through Winter’s intestines and there was stuff sloshing around in places it shouldn’t. He wondered if Winter would finally collapse from all the pain he must be in. He tried to make himself not wonder.

The sun barely seemed to move. Steve felt as if they were crawling down the hillside. And then he blinked and they were moving into the trees.

A slight breeze met them there, drying the sweat, and what he knew to be tears, on Steve’s face. A few birds chirped, or sang, and the ground was softer too. They stopped for Steve to change the dressing, tossing another blood-soaked rag to the side of the path. “Let the wolves chew on that,” he muttered. The blood was warm on his hand as he fumbled the fresh cloth into place.

He gave Winter another drink, and rubbed the clean side of his neck gently. “Please, God. Please,” he whispered. When they started off again, he actually felt Winter pick up the pace, and a stab of something like hope hit him.

“Okay, fella. If you can take it, I can,” he murmured.

Side-by-side they trekked on, Steve’s good hand on Winter’s mane, his eyes flicking quickly from one side of the path to another. Winter seemed only half-conscious now, only Steve’s touch guiding him to move to one side or another.

If he was to guess at how much blood Winter had lost, he’d say at least two gallons by now. He knew that was bad, getting into danger territory, but there was nothing else to do, except keep going. Honestly, it was a miracle Winter hadn’t gone into shock. Yet.

He could think of no prayer more eloquent than _Please, God, please._

It had taken them an hour to ride up to the cabin from the Double-R, but then they had been moving quickly. Steve and Winter were moving much slower, and had to cover at least half that distance to the logging road. How long had they been walking? How long would it take Sam to cover the trail back and call for everyone and get them all together? And for Sharon to lead them up here.

Winter stumbled, his shoulder slamming into Steve’s. The impact jarred Steve’s arm, making him wince, but he was more concerned with Winter.

“Come on, boy, please. We can do it. It’s the only way. Please.” The lump was back in his throat, but his eyes remained dry. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t ask you, but I’m asking you anyway. For me, please, come on.”

He stumbled again, and Steve made him halt. He stood with his head hung down, breathing short and shallow. Steve checked the bandage, and was horrified to see it had slipped back; blood was once more dripping freely to the ground.

“Sorry, Winter,” was all he could muster. Once again, he pulled a fresh rag from the saddle bag, shifted the twine surcingle so it was tight, and squeezed the new cloth against the wound. Another layer of blood coated what had already dried on his hand. He pressed on the wound as hard as he could, standing with his forehead resting on Winter’s hip. He didn’t know how long it was until his wrist started aching, and he had to let it drop.

Slowly, he took a water bottle out, held the cap in his teeth to twist it off, and poured some into his hat, set upside-down on the ground. When he crouched and held it under Winter’s nose, the horse took a single mouthful, before giving up. His eyes remained closed, his breath rippling the water.

“Winter?”

There was no visible response, and Steve let himself slump sideways against the horse’s neck. For a moment he let himself wonder…

But how could he, when he had nothing to do it with? Because contrary to _Hidalgo_ , a knife was way too slow.

He closed his own eyes, tasted the metallic warmth of blood on the air, smelled the warm richness of horse, and the fresh undercurrents of spruce and fir. Only then did he notice just how much he hurt. The ache in his chest was so raw and real, it made his own breathing go funny.

He just wanted this to end; he didn’t know how much further they could go, if they could go any further at all. He wished for someone, anyone to come and help them, any other person to appear and share some of the fear and worry and throbbing urgency that filled him.

“God.”

He had nothing more, though he knew he didn’t need anything more.

It took effort, but Steve forced himself to his feet, wiped the tears from his cheeks. _Come on, Steve. You’re a Rogers, you gotta cowboy up. Cowboy up._ He tried to look more carefully at his surroundings, examining the trees and terrain for anything familiar, anything that might indicate how much farther they had to go.

His eye passed over it several times, before he finally _saw_ it several yards ahead: a deep X carved into the trunk of a tall pine, a couple feet above eyelevel. The lines had oozed plenty of sap, which was all dried, but not enough to obliterate it. It was clearly several years old.

It took another 30 seconds for Steve to clue into the carving’s meaning. It had been a while since he was last here, after all. Last here…

_“Sharon, come on!”_

_“Wait, we gotta mark where we came on the trail.” Sharon’s knife blade was already digging deep into the tree, Pegasus standing steady under her rider._

That had been the summer after Joseph Rogers died, when they had ridden up and down these ranges, Sharon quietly shadowing him and Valkyrie. They’d been back more than once; funny how Steve had ridden the same paths after he said ‘bye’ to Mom. Searching, always searching for Buck, though he could never say that to anyone except Sharon.

He jogged down the path to stand in front of the tree, putting up his good hand to trace the lines. Now Steve knew what that X meant. It meant the logging road was less than a half-mile further on.

Something bumped against his calf, and he jerked around. Winter had followed him, and now his nose pressed against Steve’s jeans. Steve stood for a moment, gazing down at his horse’s head, the ears tipped toward him.

He wanted to say something to Winter, but didn’t know what. He wondered if he was gonna cry again, but swallowed hard and didn’t. They were close now, close enough to hope. But maybe it would be too late…

 _Cowboy up._ That sounded like Sharon in his head now.

Hesitantly he took another two steps down the trail. Winter took two behind him. _He’s following me. He’s dying and he’s following me, no matter how much it hurts. He’s following me._

Another step that Winter copied. Steve took a deep breath and looked ahead down the path, snaking between the trees. And then he froze.

From down the hill drifted the sound of an engine, rapidly growing louder, a big, powerful engine, like in a heavy-duty pickup. There was also a banging and rattling, like a trailer of some kind being pulled over the sometimes uneven ground in a big hurry.

Other engine sounds mixed with those, higher pitched, like four-wheelers. And faint among all that, but still definitely there, someone shouting.

Something choked Steve, and then he caught at one of Winter’s reins and they were moving. _Not too fast, not too fast,_ he was chanting to himself. Winter’s head came up, and he was hurrying too, in step with his person. But Steve knew better than to push the horse, and they stayed to a walk.

That last bit might have been the worst of it all. The sounds of help approaching, and the voices in Steve’s head screaming for him to ‘ _Hurry! Hurry!’_. They seemed to be crawling along; Steve thanking God that the last quarter mile was all on a level.

The voices got a lot louder, along with the engines, and Steve knew he could have yelled to them, but his voice didn’t seem to work right then, so he just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

It all happened at once. He and Winter were squeezing through a stand of cedar, practically falling into what felt like the wide-open space of the grass-and-weed-filled roadway. And people filled.

The big hunter green pick up, and white horse trailer. Another white truck, ATVs.

And then he saw Sam, scrambling off the back of a four-wheeler that someone in a uniform was driving, and Sharon was running straight at them.

She couldn’t help hugging him, he knew, and he didn’t even notice if it made him hurt anymore.

“Winter,” Steve croaked. “Crossbones. Still up at the cabin. Winter needs blood.”

She had him by the waist, holding him steady, right when he thought his legs were going to give out. “I know. We know. It’s okay. I’m here, Steve. We got this, we’ll be okay now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this chapter was a relief to finish.  
> I promise we are getting near the end of this story! And I promise it's a VERY happy ending. :)


	22. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally post on Sundays, but I'm really pushing to finish this by a certain time, so here we are.  
> Wow, this was a bit of work. First of all it ran away with me, then I had to rewrite three pages that got deleted, and then Sam's bit at the end went in an unexpected direction. (Apologies in advance for the bit of language.) But here we are. Just one chapter and a little epilogue left!!!!!!! *lots of internal screaming*  
> My thanks to Caro as usual, but especially for talking me off the ledge last night. 
> 
> TW: discussion of an eating disorder

It was odd.

He knew everything was clear and made sense in the moment, as it was happening. But afterwards, the memories were blurry. Scrambly.

Winter started shivering and stumbling so bad he could hardly make it onto the trailer, but Doc Barton was there and so was Nat, and when he went down, Steve let himself go down with him. They stayed like that for the whole trip down the mountain; Winter’s head in Steve’s lap.

He knew it was a miracle Winter hadn’t gone into shock earlier, with the rate he was losing blood.

Before they left, Sharon had come and kissed him, and said she was sorry, but since she knew the way so well, she was asked to guide the police up to the cabin to collect Crossbones.

He later found out it was Mrs. Barton driving the truck, allowing Doc and Natasha to work over Winter together. He just knew they were moving around, swaying with the motion of the trailer, giving Winter shots and IVs, and bandaging wounds.

Then there was an ambulance ride to the hospital, but before that Sam knelt beside him, and crossed his heart as he promised not to leave Winter’s side until Steve was able to come back. Sam was wearing a shirt again; a faded Calgary Stampede t-shirt that had been Steve’s dad’s. Steve could never have explained it, but seeing that shirt made it easier to let go of Winter and be escorted to the hospital. He knew he needed to get his own injuries seen to, in order to be more able to help Winter.

There were painkillers, and Uncle George and Aunt Winnie, and Dr. Banner saying something like, “How many more exciting ways are there to break an arm?” It _was_ a compound fracture, and a nasty one, requiring stitches once they’d put the bones back in place. Thank God it didn’t need full on surgery.

He felt as if he came to, sitting on the edge of a bed with two nurses busy about casting his arm. According to his phone, it was now 2:07. It felt like it should be a lot later.

Sam was texting him updates every ten minutes; the hospital they were taking Winter to was across the border in Newman Lake, a nearly two-hour drive. So far, all the texts were positive, though the horse was definitely going to need surgery.

They kept Steve for almost an hour after, double-checking him for a concussion and… other things, as well as giving him antibiotics and… other things that he didn’t pay much attention to. He just kept asking when he could leave.

Sharon finally showed up, along with her dad, who said very little after giving his future son-in-law a large hug. He did promise to drive both Steve and Sharon to the clinic, which meant Uncle George and Aunt Winnie could head back to the Double-R.

Sharon hopped up next to Steve, and he put his good arm around her shoulders, mindful of the IV they’d stuck in it.

“Hey.” He kissed her forehead as she nestled against him, burying her face in his shoulder. He was down to a t-shirt now; they’d had to cut off the sleeve of his sweater, and there was so much blood on it anyway, it was ruined. She sucked in a long breath as if she were smelling him, before letting it out and relaxing. “That bad, huh?”

“Ugh.” She shivered. “I know we are supposed to love our enemies and everything, but I don’t ever want to have go near him again.”

“Understandable.”

“But they do want you to come to the station to make a statement ASAP. They said you could wait till tomorrow if you needed to.”

Steve thought about that, then shook his head. “Make more sense to get it over with as soon as they let me out of here. Then I don’t have to come back from the clinic.”

Sharon’s brown eyes were worried warmth. “What’s the latest on Winter?”

“They’re over halfway there. Prognosis is good for recovery from the blood loss—now we get to worry about the bullet in his stomach.” As if on cue, Steve’s phone buzzed, and Sharon leaned over to read the message too. **30 minutes now.**

Sharon looked up at him, and reached for his hand. “Let’s pray.”

So they did, sitting there in the hospital with people bustling by, and Harrison standing guard over them. They prayed for Winter, and Sam, and Clint, and Nat, and the vets who would work on Winter at the clinic. And Sharon quietly prayed for Steve and herself and everyone else who had to deal with the shock and fallout of this whole adventure.

When they finished, they both just sat quietly, leaning into each other. Steve stared down at his bloodstained jeans, smelled Sharon’s hair, and wished he was the one still in the trailer with Winter.

**

When he was finally told he could leave, Steve was so relieved he seized Dr. Banner’s hand, and pumped it up and down.

The man laughed. “Just promise you won’t show up covered in blood again. At least for another week.”

They pulled up to the sheriff’s office, at the same time as a big van. Crossbones was the man unloaded and unceremoniously plunked into a wheelchair, his hands still cuffed behind him. Steve stood quietly, half out of sight on the opposite side of the Carters' truck, watching as the man was escorted into the jail through a side door.

Steve walked in through the front door of the station on his own, deep in thought. Chester Phillips, the sheriff himself, greeted Steve. Steve smiled a little when Sergeant Hill appeared a few seconds later. Until Hill said, looking him over, “Well, this is unfortunately familiar.”

“Did the horse give you this one too?” Sheriff Phillips asked, his tone half-joking.

With a horrible rush Steve remembered their conversation the last time he’d left a hospital with a broken arm, and Hill’s declaration about Winter.

“No,” he blurted. “I mean, yes! He bucked me off, and that’s how I broke my arm, but it wasn’t his fault! He was just protecting me. Please. You can’t–” _Do that. Put him down. Kill him._ “Crossbones already tried to kill him.”

There was an awful crack in his voice right then, and he had to bite his lip very hard, and widen his eyes as he stared down at the floor. It was Maria Hill who came and touched his arm, and told him to come and sit down and tell the whole story.

Coulson joined them for the statement, and Steve went through everything from the time he’d ridden up onto the plateau where the cabin was, as clearly as he could. It helped to remind himself again that Winter had done nothing but protect Steve, even in his battering of Crossbones. He told what he had observed of Crossbones injuries as honestly as possible.

When he paused, Coulson interjected quietly, “Ankle.”

“What?”

“Nothing but a badly sprained ankle. You were right about the ribs, though. And his real name is Brock Rumlow.”

Hill made a little noise in her throat. “A man made of leather and darkness, and he whined like a kid about a sprained ankle.”

Phillips snorted, even as he shook his head disapprovingly at his subordinates. “Let the kid tell his story, okay?”

Steve also gave a detailed description of what he knew about Winter’s injuries, and their long trek down the mountain. “They’re taking him to a hospital just across the border. I’ve already said to do whatever they have to.” He paused, looking from one face to another: Hill’s sympathy and amazement, Coulson intent on taking his own notes, and Phillips trying not to look too impressed.

“He’s fighting for his life, please,” Steve tried again. “He was only protecting me from someone who wanted to kill me. He put his life in danger for me. Please don’t–”

Maria’s hand was up to stop him, shaking her head. “I already declared the horse safe. As safe as a horse can be. And this…” She shook her head. “Don’t worry, Steve. He’s cleared his name completely with this. As far as I’m concerned that horse is a hero.” A soft little smile. “I really hope he pulls through. You deserve a break, Steve.”

Steve stared at her for a long moment, before he understood what she was saying. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Yeah.”

“You okay, son?” Sheriff Philips looked concerned.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” Steve stood, then hesitated. “What’s going to happen to him?” He jerked his head toward the hall that led to the back of the building, where he knew the cells were.

It was Coulson who answered, eyes gone cold now. “He’s been booked. State’s coming to pick him up in the morning. He has charges against him from several different states, and I know there’s at least four for murder. He’ll be gone for life.”

“Which reminds me,” Phillips held up one finger. “Mr. Rogers. What charges are you planning to lay at this time?”

Steve stared at the man without seeing him. It seemed a long time before he heard his own voice come from somewhere else. “None.”

Coulson’s sharp intake of breath—not quite a gasp—pulled Steve back into the present, and he looked down into three startled faces. Well, Maria not so much.

“The charges for horse stealing still stand, do they not?”

“Of course,” Maria started, pushing her chair back as she stood. “But, Steve–”

Steve shook his head. “No. I don’t need to.” He couldn’t explain to himself, any more than he could to them, where this was coming from, or why it felt so right. “It’s over. He’ll be served justice. I don’t need anything more.” He paused. “Well, I guess there’s one thing. Can I speak to him before I go?”

There was a long, loud silence, before the sheriff was nodding. “You may. Hill, take him back.”

Crossbones sat in one of the only two cells, his one foot propped in front of him on the bed. He did not look up until Steve stopped at the bars, and had stood there for several seconds. They stared at each other, and Steve really had no idea what the other man was thinking. He looked smaller somehow, frailer, with an ice pack against his ribs, sitting in a jail cell.

Steve sucked in a deep breath, knowing what he needed to say, knowing he could say it. “I forgive you. That’s all I wanted to say. What you did to me, what you did to my family, what you did to Winter. I forgive you.”

He didn’t wait for Crossbones (he didn’t know if he’d be able to think of him as anything else) to answer, didn’t wait to see how the criminal had received that message. He simply turned, nodded once to Sergeant Hill, and walked steadily out of the building, without looking back.

**

Sam was standing in the clinic hallway, crossed arms leaning on the sill of a large square window, forehead against the glass. He turned at the sound of their footsteps echoing off the cinderblock walls, and his face lit up.

“Dude!”

Steve was only a little surprised when Sam embraced him quickly, thumping him on the back a few times, before pulling away. “Hey, you alright?” He gave Sam a once over, noting the rusty streaks on the old t-shirt.

Sam seemed to realize suddenly, because he was tugging on it uncomfortably, apologizing. “I’m sorry, Steve. I just… grabbed the first shirt I saw in your drawer.”

“Nah, it’s alright. Chill.” Steve patted his shoulder with his good hand, then nodded toward the window. A glance was all he’d needed to know for sure what was going on in there.

“You’re in perfect time,” Sam said, before he could ask. “They’re just finishing up. Last bit of sewing I think.”

Steve nodded, not taking his eyes away from Winter’s strangely awkward-looking body lying on his back, on the huge padded table, legs held up in the air. Blue and green scrub-clad people hurried around him. A tall woman with dark hair was stepping over to a sink, stripping off her gloves and starting to wash up, talking over her shoulder.

“So far, everything has been pretty chill,” Sam muttered beside him.

“I told them to do whatever they had to.” Steve spared him a glance. The two-hour drive had felt like forever, but it had helped to know that at least there was someone there who knew Winter personally. The Bartons had basically turned around and headed right back to Fernwood, where the Doc had a scheduled neutering of a goat to get back to. “Thanks for covering the deposit, by the way.”

“No problem.”

“She’s looking at us,” Sharon whispered. “She’s coming this way…”

A door several feet to their right swung open, and the lady was there, giving Sam a nod, before glancing around at everyone else. “Which one of you is Steve?”

“Here, ma’am.” Steve stepped forward, Sharon on one side, Sam on the other.

“Dr. Kelsie Hanson. Call me Doctor Kel.” She offered her left hand. “You look like you’ve had quite a day yourself.” She eyed his cast, then glanced back up to smile at him. “Your horse is luckier than my mom with lottery tickets. We took out one bullet, up near his rectum. Only had to repair one tear in the small colon. Had to repair his bladder and a few other things in there, but the long and short of it is… he’s come though the surgery as well as we could have hoped for.

“There’s still a very possible threat of infection,” she added quickly, “no matter how thoroughly we cleaned everything out. But for the moment, it looks good.”

Sharon’s arms wrapped around his waist, and he dropped a quick kiss on her hair. Then he turned to Sam, and they solemnly, fervently shook hands.

“He’ll be waking up in–” the vet glanced at her watch. “–20 minutes or so. We gave him a little extra to make sure he wouldn’t be awake before you got here. You said on the phone that Sleeping Beauty might freak out if you weren’t there.”

They had to wait until Winter had been carefully laid flat on the floor of the padded room Dr. Kel called “the princess’s chamber”. Steve noted the shaved patches on his neck (just stitches there), shoulder (a bandage), and most of his abdomen.

“We’ll need to keep him for at least a week,” the vet was saying. “And then he’s going to need to be on extensive stall rest, you won’t be able to ride him for at least a couple months.” But Steve was only half listening.

As soon as the chains had been taken off his legs, and a couple nurses were beginning to take the wraps off, Steve hurried to Winter’s head. He dropped to his knees, hand hovering over Winter’s cheek, before he finally put his hand in front of the horse’s nose. Warm breath feathered across his fingers, and he suddenly had to bite his lips together to keep them from trembling.

He took a couple deep breaths, and sat criss-cross-applesauce, lifting Winter’s head into his lap. Minutes ticked by before one of the techs called quietly, “Should be anytime now.”

“Hey, fella,” Steve murmured, starting to stroke as much of Winter’s neck as he could. “You in there? You can wake up now. I’m right here, boy, okay? You gotta stay nice and quiet.” Winter’s breathing was changing, not as even, shorter, his nostrils beginning to twitch.

“Winter? Hey, Winter, hey fella.” Steve rubbed his fingers in little circles right up under Winter's mane. “Can you hear me? It’s okay, boy, everything’s okay, you just need to listen to me and trust me, okay? You’re gonna be okay. I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”

Winter was blinking up at him, before he instinctively started to lift his head, pulling his legs in, to try to gather himself up, ready to stand.

“Woah.” Steve pressed his palm against Winter’s neck, gentle but firm. He could tell Winter was still pretty dopey, but a lot of horses could panic and thrash around coming out of anesthesia. This was one of the most important first steps in Winter’s recovery.

“Easy, easy, easy, easy,” Steve soothed. “I’m right here, fella, it’s alright. You’ve been through the wars, but you’re gonna be okay. You just need to lie still.”

Winter did stay still, even though Steve could feel the tension in his neck. He looked up at Steve with one eye, watching, assessing, trusting.

“Don’t worry about this cast,” Steve murmured. “I’ll be fine. It was my own fault for forgetting how to fall properly. You were the one saving me. You’re a hero, Winter,” he went on softly, once again massaging as much of Winter’s neck as he could. “A hero, hear that? That’s what Sergeant Hill called you. You’re safe now, Winter. He’s gone, and we won’t ever have to worry about him again. We’ve got a life to live, you and I.

“You and I,” he whispered again.

Winter nickered softly, as if he understood.

**

Steve woke to the smells of hay, and shavings, and something sharp and too clean underneath that. He could also smell Sharon, which made sense because she was curled against his side, wrapped in one of the quilts they had grabbed from the Double-R on their way by yesterday, her hair tangled with shavings and strewn across his shoulder.

She was on his good side, so he couldn’t very well pull out his phone without waking her. But he would guess it was around 6, since he could hear voices down the aisle, horses beginning to move around their stalls, a soft snort from Winter next door.

He tilted his head to rest against hers, and dropped a kiss on her hair; she was a trooper, sticking it out with him here. Before he’d left to take Sam home, Harrison had hugged his daughter, and told her, “Take care of Steve.”

She’d laughed a little. “That’s what I’ve been doing for over a decade, Dad.”

Her breathing was deep, even, and he lay still, letting his mind wander. She really had been sticking by him for a long time, hadn’t she? They’d been born a few months apart on neighbouring ranches, after all; he couldn’t remember a time without her in his life. And he didn’t know what he would do, or who he’d even be, without her.

She was dependable, he could count on her, and he always tried his hardest to make sure she knew the same about him.

From the time he was a little boy, just old enough to comprehend the idea of marriage, he’d said Sharon was the one for him. Believed it too, with all his little heart. He knew that often the people you grow up with become family, siblings. But he’d always wanted Sharon to be his girl.

What was he 8, 9, 10? Sitting on the porch steps at the Carter Ranch, watching his old pony, Snowy, graze on the lawn where he was ground-tied.

She had been thinking, brow wrinkled. “But what if I wanna marry someone else when I’m old, like, eighteen?”

His heart dropped. “Like who?”

She shrugged vaguely. He remembered the white t-shirt she’d been wearing, with the sleeves cut off. “I don’t know, like someone I meet later.”

The relief made his chest get big. “Who could you meet that would be better than me? Who else brings you wildflowers, and lets you ride doubles on Snowy? Who else can sing all the words with you to your favourite song from _Aladdin?_ ”

She had been quiet, staring down the drive toward the road for long enough to make him nervous, but then she turned back, and she was smiling shyly. “Yeah, you are the best.”

They had walked to the barn to see the orphan calf, holding hands; he’d felt like the king of the world.

Yeah, they’d had some rough patches along the way; plenty of fights, a couple school crushes for both of them, and a year or so in their teens when things had been… different between them. Emotional, butterflies, too many feelings for Steve to really enjoy. But then Steve’s mom had gotten sick, and once more his world, _their_ world had shifted, but this time to something steadier, something solid again.

Oh, she could make his heart race, make him lose his breath, make him think about when they could do more than kiss. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. But that wasn’t the _heart_ of it. What they shared was deeper than feelings, strong, built over time, from childish affection, to easy friendship, to boyfriend and girlfriend, to the sweet companionship of shared life. Layer after layer until Steve knew it was the kind of steadiness only God could be behind. Love rooted in a place that no earthquake could shake.

What was that Dierks Bentley song?

_Every night I should be on my knees_

_Lord knows how lucky I am_

_I’ll never say near enough_

_‘Thank God for this woman, amen’_

Somewhere he could hear a door sliding open, buckets banging together, feed rattling. Sharon’s breathing changed, quickened, and she stirred.

“Kay, wha?” she croaked, sitting bold upright, staring around. “Oh, right. Ugh.” She yawned hugely, stretched, shoved her hair out of her face. “Ugh, my mouth tastes awful. Why did we not bring toothbrushes?”

Steve broke out of his reverie with a little laugh, but not before she wrinkled her brow at him. “Why are you just staring at me like that? How’s Winter?”

“Because I love you. And let’s go find out.”

She hopped nimbly up, and offered him her hand. “And I love you too.”

“Forever.” He grinned down into her brown eyes.

“And always.” She kissed his cheek, then followed him next door, pulling her hair up into a ponytail, choosing to ignore its messiness.

Once again Steve stepped into a stall where his horse had stitches holding his skin together, and IV bags hung from the ceiling. Once again he met that gaze, dulled with drugs, but still knowing, still seeing, still trusting. They exchanged breaths, Steve inhaling the warm, still faintly grassy air. Then he could take it no longer and wrapped his arm around Winter’s neck, mindful of the bandages, and buried his face in Winter’s mane.

“Hey, Winter,” he whispered, as the horse leaned into the contact.

Sharon chuckled. “I think you just sent his serotonin levels through the roof. The best medicine.” She let the horse snuffle her hand, before she came to his side, bent to check the big incision that ran from his belly, up between his legs.

Steve crouched, and ran his own fingers lightly over the stapled flesh: warm, but not concerningly so, and the surrounding area was cool and smooth.

“How does he look this morning?”

Horse and humans turned at the cheerful voice. Dr. Kel was wearing overalls, black hair in a braid that joined the stethoscope looped around her neck. “You two sleep alright?” she added as she offered Winter a small slice of apple. Winter sniffed at it, took it gently, and chewed slowly; Steve guessed nothing short of death itself would stop Winter from enjoying an apple.

“Yes, thank you,” Sharon smiled.

She took his vitals, listened to his lungs, before saying, “Let’s see what’s going on in Australia.” Her examination of the abdominal incision was quick, and she straightened up looking even happier. “That is looking better than my car’s bumper. No real swelling, and only a little heat.” She gave the horse’s flank a pat. “I think we can take him off the sedatives now, but we definitely need to keep him on the antis—the antimicrobials, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatories—for a day or two yet, plus the blood booster. But you can give him hay today.”

“You want him to stay for a week, right?” Steve let Winter rest his head on his arm.

The vet shrugged, moved to lean against the frame of the half-open door. “That’s normal for abdominal surgery, although it depends on how sick the horse seems after. Looking at him this morning, it definitely shouldn’t be longer. Of course, I’ve only ever done colic surgeries. A horse getting shot like that, that’s totally new.”

“Well, we’re very grateful,” Steve said quietly.

“Hey, it’s a good experience. Oh, I have the bullet if you want it for… anything.” She pulled one hand out of her pocket, held the shell out to Steve.

He took it slowly, held it, rolling the little piece of metal between his fingers.

“And what’s his care supposed to look like back home?” Sharon asked.

“Well, staples should come out in two weeks. Your vet can do that, no reason to come back. Nothing but stall rest and hand-walking for the first month, then short supervised turnout, then by the third month he can go for regular turnout. You can usually start riding again in the fourth month.”

“Well, not the first time we’ve had to do this,” Steve murmured. “But that’s still a long time.”

“Abdominal surgery is more serious than my brother about finishing a book. Anytime he moves around he's using muscles down there, and you want to make sure it’s good and strong again before you put him to any real work. It will definitely be two-and-a-half to three months before you can ride again.”

“Yeah.” Steve sighed a little. “Whatever’s best for him though.”

“Kelsie?” someone called from down the corridor.

The doctor stuck her head out the door to call back, “Be right there!” She gave them an apologetic smile. “Gotta go. You can find some hay in the feed room.”

“Thanks,” Steve and Sharon chorused.

When she had gone, Steve glanced down, gently shifting his arm to encourage Winter to move away. “Well, that’s pretty good news, all things considered. Now, if you’ll stop using me for a headrest, fella, we can go get some hay for you eat. You’ve gotta be starving by now.”

Winter rumbled a nicker at him.

“Yep, we’re going.” He was at the door before he realized Sharon was not beside him. “Hey, you coming?” he called over his shoulder, but then frowned.

She was just standing with her hands in her pockets, staring at Winter; her shoulders hunched a little at the sound of his voice.

He was beside her at once, hand gentle on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

She looked down, scuffed the toe of one boot in the shavings, which just made him worry more. “Guess we’ll have to reschedule the wedding.”

Steve’s mouth fell half-open, before he shook his head, unsure of what he’d just heard. “What? What do you mean?” A stab of something like fear as he registered the statement.

Now she finally looked up, her eyes hurting, disappointed, uncertain. She frowned. “For Winter.”

“Why do we have to get married in the winter?”

“No!” She was frustrated now. “You. Riding Winter. From the church after the wedding. It’s… what? May 12th? The wedding is June 29th. That’s a month and a half. There’s no way he’ll be ready in time.” She mistranslated his staring and raised her voice. “Look, I know how much that means to you, okay? I know what a big decision that was for you, and how much you’re looking forward to it. So, if you want to change the wedding… that’s okay.” Her voice did not waver, though her eyes filled abruptly with tears.

Only that kept Steve from laughing in relief. But then he had to reach out, and pull her in close, tucking her shoulder under his sling, ignoring the way his arm twinged when he rested it across her back.

“You– You absolute…. _Darling.”_ He kissed her forehead, and then she was crying into his shoulder. “As if I’d make you wait any longer.” He looked over at Winter. “Who knows, maybe he will be okay for a little walk then. And even if he isn’t… Well, I’ll ride Valkyrie then. As long as he’s okay, and you’re my wife, that’s all that matters.”

Sharon tried to pull away, shaking her head. “Sorry, s-sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Hush.” He leaned in to kiss the bridge of her nose, and she relaxed again, sniffling into his shirt. “It’s okay to cry sometimes. It’s been a pretty stressful last day.”

“Yeah.” She took a shuddering breath, and he rocked them both slightly, from side-to-side. “Sorry. I just… there was Sam on the phone breathing too fast and talking too fast and I all I could hear was ‘blood’ and ‘Steve’ and ‘Winter’ and ‘Crossbones’. And I… kinda scared myself before he calmed down enough to explain. But we still didn’t know how we’d find you. Sam kept screaming at everyone to hurry, hurry, hurry! And then there was _him._ I didn’t dare go too close, ‘cause I was pretty sure if I did I’d end up punching him, or at least saying something I would regret.”

Steve hummed in acknowledgement, knowing she just needed to get this stuff off her chest.

“I mean, I’ll forgive him, I know I can, but he’s– That doesn’t change the fact that he’s a horrible person, and he did some really horrible things. And Steve… I’m just… really glad you’re… alive.”

“Yeah,” he whispered against her ear. “Yeah, me too.”

**

By the third full day at the clinic, the best news was that Winter had finally had a full poop. Steve knew what it was like to be glad over a brown pile in a stall; he’d dealt with more than one case of colic in his lifetime. Winter was back on grain, and moving easily around his stall. Steve had come to read his body language enough to see that it still hurt, but he was more than soldiering on.

As for the infection, it had not reared its ugly head, and Dr. Kel was saying that was all best-case scenario.

Nick brought Sam that evening, both of them worn from running the ranch without Steve, but flatly turning down his apologies. He had tried to leave the previous evening with his aunt and uncle, but they’d been three-quarters of the way home when he’d gotten a call saying Winter was fretting, starting to pace. Without hesitation, Uncle George had turned around and driven straight back.

So Tess and Steve had settled down in the next door stall. Fortunately, there were showers for the employees in the building, so it was okay. Living off of sandwiches the others brought him, helping around the barn, even giving some advice with handling a more difficult stallion.

Nick surprised Steve with a hug. He let go quickly, and turned to look at Winter, embarrassed. “Would have given this old man a few more grey hairs, if I had any left.” He squinted his one eye at Winter. “He looks good.”

Winter ambled over and nosed at his pocket, and the man grumbled under his breath as he fished out a couple stud biscuits.

Sam and Steve both grinned.

“Typical.”

“He really does look awesome.” Sam leaned against the wall. “Thanks to you, man.”

“Thanks to you too. We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t ridden back as fast as you did, and called everyone up.”

“I’ve never had to trust Falcon that much. And I guess he had to trust me too. I knew where I could push him, I thought, but then he had to keep saving our necks from going over the edge, and then I had to balance myself too, to help him. It was…” He let out a gusty breath. “Ri would have called it awesome.”

“What would you call it?”

Sam gave Steve a sideways glance, then grinned, just a little. “Kind of awesome. Except for the whole reason I was doing it. Gosh.” He gave his head a violent shake.

“You… doing okay? With everything?” Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes on Nick slipping Winter more biscuits, and checking his legs.

“Yeeeah…”

Steve stilled at the slow uncertainty in that word. “In other words, you’re not okay.”

There was a long silence, and Steve mentally kicked himself. Maybe if he’d just kept his mouth shut Sam would have said whatever he needed to.

“Hey, didn’t you come up the mountain with the four wheelers?” he asked suddenly.

Sam made a noise that might have been a laugh. “Yeah, they just yelled at me to hop on so I did. I was more worried about getting to you than anything else.”

“You’re brave, Sam. Really brave.”

Silence again. Then: “Can we walk somewhere?”

 _Where Nick won’t hear us?_ “Sure.” Steve headed for the door. “Let’s go sit in the sun for a bit. I could use some Vitamin D.”

Tess joined them as they headed down the aisle, sticking close to Steve’s heels. When they found a good spot on some decorative rocks, she wandered about sniffing.

“So, I told you about, like, the suicide thing,” Sam started almost at once, as if he’d really been wanting to talk to Steve about this. “But there was something else too.

“It was right after he died, and it took me… I don’t know, sometime after I got here to really… get over it, I guess.” Sam squinted across the paddock where a white donkey and a chestnut pony grazed. “It… feels really stupid, you know–”

“Hey, it’s never stupid.”

Sam gave a little snort. “Who’s the therapist now?”

“Sorry–”

“It’s okay, I know what you mean, but it still _felt_ too stupid to talk to anyone about. Like, guys aren’t supposed to deal with that kind of thing.” He hesitated again.

Steve held his breath, staring at the green of the new grass in the glow of the setting sun, silently praying.

“It’s like… I don’t feel like eating. Anything. Well, I mean, I guess that was at first. Then I’d eat just enough to like… not be constantly passing out at school, at least after that happened back at my old school. It was what made my parents send me to see a therapist. He didn’t help, because I didn’t want him to, I guess. And then… I just kinda got over it. Mostly because you gave me something else to think about.”

He shot Steve a sideways glance, self-conscious. “Getting back to church, talking to God, that really helped too.”

“And you’re dealing with that feeling again now.”

Sam’s mixture of shame and relief was almost palpable, and Steve did the only thing he could think of, the thing that always seemed to help Sam in the hard moments. He reached out and put his good hand on his friend’s shoulder.

They sat in silence, until Tessa came trotting back, and sat between the two of them. Sam reached to stroke her head, and she looked up at him, shifted to rest her chin on his knee.

Sam had struggled with an eating disorder, that was the official term for it, Steve knew. Which was simultaneously horrifying, shocking, and… well, it also made sense. The way people dealt with trauma—consciously or unconsciously—could vary a great deal. He was right about it being a thing people didn’t usually associate with guys, though.

He could feel Sam’s body heat through his shirt, maybe even the faint pulse of the big warm heart Steve had come to love so well. Sure, they might have different coloured skin, but if Steve could pick anyone for a brother, it would be Sam Wilson.

Part of him wanted to say nothing, another part of him wanted to just give advice, and another wanted to ask questions. _We really are all just messy people, even though the messes may look different,_ he thought.

 _Sometimes people are a lot like horses._ That was Steve’s dad. _And sometimes when you don’t know what to do to help, just treat them like you would a horse you want to help. First, you need to understand, see where they’re coming from._

And the first part of that was to ask questions. Right.

“So… I don’t want to make you feel bad or anything, but just so I can get a better picture… when was the last time you ate something?”

Sam kept his eyes on Tessa’s head. “Yesterday morning. Unless you count the carrot I shared with Falcon today. I was halfway through a bite, and then I realized, and I just– Dammit all, Steve!” He was suddenly on his feet. “What’s _wrong_ with me?! Why can’t I just _deal_ with it? What’s so _hard_ about eating a single stupid _meal?_ I try to swallow and feel like I’m choking, I can’t breathe. Why? We’re fine. We’re all okay. _You’re_ okay. Why can’t I just-?”

He sank down again, covered his face with his hands.

“Dude.” Steve slid closer to wrap his arm around Sam’s shoulders. _Dear God, help me here._ “Go a little easier on yourself, okay. What happened up at the cabin was pretty dramatic and scary, no doubt about that. You were under a lot of stress that day. And it’s probably the closest you’ve come to being as stressed as you were after Riley died. So your body remembers that, and it’s doing the same thing it did then.

“When they’re trying to cope with something stressful, horses always shut down in one way or another. Quite often they will go off their feed. So… I can get it.” Steve smiled sadly. “I basically didn’t sleep for a year after my dad died. That was my thing. We’ve all got one, I think.”

After a minute, Sam gave a wet snort. “What are you, Dr. Phil Doolittle now?” But there was no heat behind the words.

The sun had set behind the trees, and shadows were beginning to purple the landscape. Sam sat up and dried his face on his shirt, before slumping against Steve. Steve’s heart squeezed at the vulnerability in the motion.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” he mumbled.

“Are you… okay with some advice?”

Sam huffed. “That was kinda why I brought it up, yeah.”

“I think you should talk to Pastor Renn. And then maybe, it would help if you saw a counsellor. Maybe a Christian counsellor? They can have more insight into specific things you're struggling with.”

“Wait, Christian counselling is a thing?” Sam pushed upright, squinting in the dusky light.

“Yeah.”

“And why do you sound like you know so much about it?”

Steve half-smiled. “Me and my mom went after Dad died. It helped.”

“Steve? Sam!”

The both paused, and cocked their heads at the distant call.

“That’ll be Nick.” Sam sighed, and took the hand Steve offered to pull him to his feet. Steve did not hesitate to let go of his friend’s hand, and pull him into a one-armed hug.

“Just… promise me you’ll call him?” he muttered, resting his chin on his best friend’s shoulder. “Pastor Renn? Tomorrow maybe? At the latest?” A long breath, Sam’s hands gripping his shirt. “We need you, pal. _I_ need you. As my friend.”

Sam nodded once, stepped back, clapping Steve’s shoulder. “Yeah, man. I can do that. Just to be sure, you can bug me about it.”

“You can count on me.”

They walked back to where the warm light was spilling out the barn door, and Nick was standing, a dark silhouette.

“It’s like… like a... a dragon," Sam said softly. "At least, that’s how I started to think of it. A dragon that wanted to eat me alive. But I beat him, I killed him. And now… he’s back.”

Steve suddenly smiled, winking back unbidden tears. “That must be really discouraging. But... you know... dragons are Jesus’s specialty.”

Sam laughed, and Steve joined him.

“Glad to hear you two doing that,” Nick called gruffly, as soon as they were within earshot. “I gave him his supper, Cap. And a good grooming. He looks good. Doc stopped by to say he shouldn’t have to stay a whole week.”

“Thanks so much, Nick.” Steve shook his hand warmly.

“Just get your butt back soon,” Sam said, as he also shook his hand.

Steve met his gaze and smiled. “Working on it.”

He watched them leave, watched them climb into Nick’s truck and disappear around the other barn toward the road.

Then he walked back to Winter’s stall, Tessa padding beside him. “Hey, fella,” he murmured, going straight to his horse’s side, leaning against his shoulder, putting his arm over his neck. Winter turned from his hay, stems sticking out from his lips, ears pricked.

And then it was Steve’s turn to cry. He cried for Sam, so brave, so gutsy. He cried for Winter, so broken, yet so healed. He cried for his family and everything they’d gone through, everything lost and everything gained. And he cried for himself, for the dark days and the good days and everything in between.

He had half-wondered if the nightmares would return, the bad ones, with Crossbones. After all, he had just faced off with the man himself. But there had been nothing like that. Mostly he slept deep and well, the occasional odd dream of Winter or Sharon or eating something weird for supper. It was as if he really had made his peace with that chapter, not just in his heart, but in his head.

In some ways, it didn’t seem fair that he should be okay and Sam should be the one struggling worst. But maybe… maybe that was so he could be solidly there for his friend. The way he knew Sam had and would be for him.

Winter stood quietly, neck wrapped around Steve’s back, holding him close and warm. A horse hug.

Steve didn’t cry for too long. He pulled away, and wiped his eyes, and rubbed Winter’s neck gratefully. “You’re the best, boy. You really are.”

**

He was lying on his cot, Tessa in her nest of a quilt on the floor beside him, only the night lights at each end of the barn making it not quite full darkness. He’d already read his Bible and said his evening prayers.

He heard his phone vibrate from its place on the haybale he was using as a table, and rolled over to grab it.

**Isn’t OJ good for you?**

Steve typed back fast:

**Course it is.**

**Thanks again.**

**Anytime.**

**Sooo, this was the verse I saw highlighted in my Bible when I opened it tonight.**

**“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33**

**You know there’s no such thing as coincidence.**

**I know man**

**We can do this**

**Right?**

**We can do this**

**Right**

**K**

Steve smiled, and turned his phone off, lying in the dark, comforted. _Thank You, God._

In the clinic barn the boy and dog and horses slept. In his room under the eaves of the Wilson house, Sam did the same. Slept to gather strength for a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted:  
> "Woman, Amen" by Dierks Bentley
> 
> Also, I didn't get to quote it, but Nathan Wagner's song "Innocence" had me crying in Sam's scene.
> 
> The character of Dr. Kel is original.


	23. Winter's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are with the grand finale.  
> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> I got scared for a while, of making a mistake with this, which held me to writing nothing for almost two weeks. But I finally broke out of that, and am simply offering the best I have.  
> All my love and thanks to Ari and Caro, for the unfailing patience and love. And thanks to Madi for the boost in inspiration.

Winter came home from the clinic on a warm grey day, with a soft rain falling, the grass and flowers eagerly reaching up to it. He and Steve stepped out of the trailer and stood in the yard, looking around, happy to be home. Winter threw up his head, and sniffed, loud and hard, making Steve chuckle.

“Still smell right?” he asked.

Winter snorted and shoved him hard with his nose.

He had been in the hospital a total of five days, and had been a model patient the whole time. But Steve was a little worried about how he’d behave after another two weeks of being cooped up in his stall, except for ten-minute walks every few hours.

Thing about Winter was, he wasn’t a jump-and-take-you-off-your-feet kind of horse. As long as he didn’t feel threatened, he knew he was safest if he behaved. But he had started to get a little mischief back in him since he’d come to the ranch.

After three days of not getting turned out, he started prancing for the first half-minute or so, as soon as they were outside the barn. But a word from Steve and he would settle down. He made sure to vary the routine each time, though they would always go and spend some time by the fence with Val.

There was one scary incident, when a young boy, who was picking up his horse with his folks, came around the corner of the barn, swinging his crop cheerfully, and then decided to come over and say ‘Hi’. Winter did not spook, but his head shot up, and he was bracing himself, before Steve was able to clue in and defuse the situation. Both of them were a little weak in the knees when they came back to Winter’s stall.

But mostly it was fine, and the days slipped by much quicker than Steve thought they could without riding Winter. The wedding helped. First it was a month off, then three weeks, then: “Two-and-a-half weeks!”

Aunt Winnie was staring at the calendar hanging on the office wall.

Steve looked up from the computer, and grinned. “Don’t they call it ‘bride hysteria’? You’re not the bride, so you shouldn’t be fretting.”

Winnie clicked her tongue at him. “Well, that’s too much hysteria on one person’s shoulders. We have to spread it out. Besides,” she added, fishing the feed bill out of her purse and sticking it in the tray marked _PAY_ , “I think Sharon is the least worried of anyone. It’s Ginny who goes around muttering her list out loud all the time.”

Steve chuckled. He’d witnessed Sharon’s mom doing just that the other day, during supper at the Carter’s. While he and Sharon had been arguing over the time one of them had put a handprint of paint on the old farm dog Mitzi’s head, something they had not agreed on for over ten years, and was a favourite source of entertainment.

“Gotta be honest, I don’t know why everyone sounds crazy these days.” Steve leaned back in his chair. “Some things are just gonna go wrong, and that’s the funny stuff that everyone will be talking about in five years.”

His aunt laughed, and kissed him on the cheek, before heading for the door. “That’s true. The thing I remember clearest from my wedding, is the pastor saying, ‘Bless these wings’ instead of ‘rings’. Mrs. Bradshaw had brought her best chicken wings and hot sauce, and everyone said the ‘wings were _surely_ blessed’.”

Steve laughed out loud.

Sam was seeing a counsellor, and doing better, though still mostly living on smoothies. He said it made a big difference having God in on the therapy. He also said the best part was that no one shamed him about it. Steve had his worries, like all of Sam’s family and friends, but he kept handing them over to God, and just making sure he did the best he could to take care of his friend.

Occasionally there was a report on the news about another member of the Crossbones horse stealing operation being caught, including one of the dudes from the auction who admitted to sneaking onto the property at Christmas, but they always said there seemed to be little chance of tracking any of the horses they had turned over, because there were so few records kept.

On the other side of that coin, he had purposely never asked what Crossbones had done to Winter; he didn’t need to know any more horrors than he’d been shown. He did occasionally wonder where Winter might have been stolen from, but would hastily banish the thought. With no paper trail, and Crossbones either unwilling or unable to tell, they would probably never know who Winter’s original owners were.

But Steve didn’t let himself dwell on either of those things; he just couldn’t. He didn’t have time.

So yeah, life was good.

Most nights Steve would fall into bed counting paint cans, and horses, and falling asleep halfway through his prayers. Between the training jobs and the spring clean-up, which was more intense this year with the reception being held at the Double-R, he was plumb tuckered out.

It was ten days till the wedding, he noted one night, as he revelled in having the full use of two hands and arms again. He’d begged Dr. Banner to take the bulky cast off, and the man had finally relented, instead giving him a protective brace that he was supposed to wear during the day.

“I know you had the last cast off at four weeks,” he’d said, taking off his glasses, and looking at Steve seriously. “But this is that arm’s second break in six months, so it’s going to be fragile for longer.”

“Bones are always fragile, Doc,” Steve had grinned.

The best thing about the brace over the cast, was how much more freedom it gave his hand, bringing his range of motion almost back to normal. He had discarded it on his dresser as he was changing earlier.

He paused, one hand on Tessa’s back, just as he was about to turn the light out. The date. Tomorrow was the 19th. Huh. It had never snuck up on him like this before. And even now that he remembered, it seemed oddly… harmless. The sting wasn’t there, only a brief pang. Before he was replaying Sam’s prank on Sharon at lunch, and he clicked off the light smiling.

Rain on the window lulled him to sleep.

**

“Hey, Dad. Mom. I really hope God will let you hear what I’m saying today, though I guess you probably already know.”

He looked down at his hat, turning it over in his hands. Last night’s rain had cleared off to a warm, breezy day, with big fluffy white clouds in the blue. The sun felt good on his head.

He never really felt like he was talking to a stone. It was more like the stone was part of a wall, and his parents were just on the other side, just out of sight.

“So, I won’t go into details. I don’t really want to anyway.”

His eyes found the name _Joseph Rogers_ , and the dates below it: almost fifty-one years since the first, exactly seven since the second.

Exactly seven years since the evening he had fallen to his knees beside his father, lying in front of the horse barn, seen fear in the man’s eyes when they opened.

_“Daddy, Daddy, get up. Come on, we have to go look for Buck. For the horses. Daddy!”_

_“It’s. Okay. Stevie. Just. Get. Your. Mother.”_

_The wiry shoulders of his father trembling against Steve’s arm, the man struggling to breathe. Steve’s scream for his mom echoing around the farmyard, through the empty barn._

_Her eyes too wide, her hands moving too fast. “It’s a heart attack. Steve, run inside and get a few blankets. I’ll call 911.”_

_In the evening sunshine he crouched beside his parents, waiting, unable to bear the look on his dad’s face any longer, and staring away at the white mark painted on the barn door._

_Then he couldn’t stand that, and fastened his eyes on his dad’s once more. Then he had to look away again._

_He noticed the drip running down from the skull’s chin, and from the bottom left corner of the X._

“We caught him, Dad. Winter and me. After all this time.”

He fell silent again, watching the way the light played through the almost-full leaves on the trees, twisting the bracelets on his wrist.

“I forgave him. I had to. I had to, because if I didn’t say it to his face while I could, it would… haunt me. I want to let it go. Let that chapter end, you know?”

Impulsively he stepped forward, laid both hands on top of the stone, leaning on it. “I’ll never stop missing you, Dad. I’ll never forget any of them.” He closed his eyes, and dredged up the strongest memory he could of his father’s arms wrapping around him. Leaning on the fence beside the man, watching the horses run in the morning mist.

“I love you, Dad.”

He thought about the wedding, and for a brief moment, he let himself imagine his parent’s faces in the audience, as he stood up there with Sharon at his side.

“We _will_ be okay. We are.”

He had few words this morning, but really, he knew he didn’t need many. He tilted his head back, stared up into a patch of warm blue. Lifted his cold fingers to his lips, and blew a couple kisses heavenward.

“See you someday.”

It had been just over a year afterwards that he sat on the ridge with Val, after riding all night long. Cold, tired, so very alone, he had watched the sunlight creeping along the flatlands toward him, as the sun rose behind the mountains. Worn to a place beyond tears.

And on the breeze, someone had called his name.

He had started, turned, his heart in his throat. Whispered, “Dad?”

No one there but Valkyrie.

A moment of sickening disappointment. Before he felt it once more, a kind of tangible peace. A blanket around his shoulders. _“God?”_

And right then, plain as day, God had said, _“You’re not alone. You’re never alone.”_

The same words Dad had often said. But he knew them in his soul then.

As he drove away from the cemetery, Steve turned the radio on to the ever-present country station.

_You wouldn’t know what it’s like to dance in the rain_

_Never see the silver lining when the skies go grey_

_You wouldn’t know a dream come true from the few that don’t_

_You’d never find your way on a broken road_

_If you never had hard days…_

**

“Hullo. What’s all this?”

He’d stopped by the CO-OP to get Aunt Winnie’s hedge shears sharpened, and pick up another bucket of fence paint. He’d met Tessa in the driveway, and parked by the house, and noted Aunt Winnie’s line of freshly washed linens dancing in the breeze. But that wasn’t what he was really interested in.

“What does it look like?” Sharon called, flicking the end of her wet ponytail off her neck. She stood just outside the barn in the warm sunshine, dropping the rope of a gleaming Winter to ground-tie him, while Sam brought up the rear with an armful of towels.

The horse chose that moment to brace all four legs and give the full body shake, making Sam and Sharon squeal and fruitlessly duck away from the shower.

Steve found himself smiling, couldn’t help it really, as Winter nickered at him. Only his good training kept him from leaving his tie. Steve came to him, fishing a slightly wrinkled apple slice out of one pocket. “It looks like a bath,” he answered Sharon.

“Wanted to make him look nice without you having to do all the work for a change.” Sam had started drying Winter’s near side, working down his front leg.

“You think I call hanging with my own horse _work?”_ Steve shook his head. He accepted the towel Sharon thrust at him.

“Good, because _you_ get to dry his head,” she said.

For all the progress in trust Winter had made, Steve was still the only one allowed to actually put his hands on Winter’s head. He unbuckled the halter, and let it drop to the ground, spreading the towel out between his hands for Winter to bury his head in; funny thing was Winter _loved_ getting his head dried in a towel.

“Did he stick his head in the spray again?” Steve asked, bracing himself against Winter’s vigorous rubbing.

“Yeah,” Sam gave the horse’s neck a rub. “He’s so weird. Most horses don’t like that.”

“Samson. Remember him, Sharon? Your dad’s old horse? Remember how he used to practically dance in the rain? Stick his head in the sprinklers?”

Sharon laughed, even as her smile was wistful. “He was an old dear, wasn’t he?”

Standing in the sunshine with his horse and his two best friends, Steve felt the melancholy of earlier drift away with the clouds. This was life now.

“Okay, okay.” Steve finally pulled the towel away, and rested one hand across Winter’s scarred nose, settling him. “You doofus,” he murmured, looking into those big brown eyes. They were so bright now, so… happy. He blew softly into Winter’s nostrils, and the horse blew back.

Sam had disappeared back into the barn, and returned with a couple combs, handing one to Sharon for Winter’s tail and starting in on the horse’s mane himself. He was whistling “Bless the Broken Road”, not a surprise since it was on the reception playlist they had been compiling for the last week. Steve had appointed Sam DJ, alongside his best man duties.

“Doesn’t the best man always get to be DJ?” Sam had asked.

Steve had laughed and shrugged. “I have no idea, but we can make that a rule, sure.”

Only once in the last month had Steve tried to broach the subject of the money Sam had paid for Winter’s surgery. Sam had simply said, “It’s a wedding present, now shut the hell up about it. You guys are worth it.” And walked away.

Sharon had said basically the same, adding with a teasing smirk, “Besides after we’re married, all your money will be mine anyway.”

Winter nudged his stomach, and Steve absently traced one of the scars down the horse’s face, as he reached into his pocket for another linty chunk of apple.

His horse was healing well, incision healing clean and dry, and Doc Barton’s last ultrasound had looked good. Still no riding for another month, though…

“We’re okay, though,” Steve sighed. “Yah, boy?” He noticed that Sam had stopped combing, still at the top of Winter’s mane closest to Steve, and was squinting at the left side of the horse’s head, tilting his own head from one side to the other, frowning.

“What?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought that was just another scar on his cheek, but it actually looks almost like a brand. Maybe?”

“What?”

Now Steve was startled. He took a step to the side, one hand resting lightly on Winter’s nose, and Sam made room for him.

“Yeah. The one big scar kinda cuts through it, but when you look at it in this light…”

“What does it look like?” Sharon asked, voice sharpening.

“Kinda like a capital R. But with something else?”

Steve was only half listening, tilting his head as Sam had, staying fully aware of Winter’s body language. Gently he smoothed his free right hand down his horse’s cheek, murmuring a few soft words; Winter eyed him, but did not pull away.

He traced the rope of a scar that trailed off down Winter’s cheek, until he saw what Sam had pointed out. Faint, old, but definite when you were looking for it.

A brand.

_What?_

Steve stopped breathing.

There was an R alright, back-to-back with another. Branded firm on Winter’s cheek, the mark as tall as Steve’s hand was wide.

“Steve?”

Winter started when he gasped a deep breath, pulling his head out of Steve’s hands, but Sharon had seen it too. She was looking at him, her eyes big. She must have seen it, she must… Steve could not look away from Winter.

“That’s–” Her voice was high with wondering. “Steve, that’s– Am I imagining things, or is that a Double-R brand? Cause it sure as heck looks like one.”

Winter was watching them intently now, head up, ears pointed forward, trying to figure out why the air had changed. Steve stared up at him, the shape of his head, the line of his neck.

“Wait, you mean this horse is yours? Or _used_ to be yours?” Sam was definitely confused. “Before… So, Winter was a horse Crossbones stole from _you?!”_

“Steve?”

He could feel Sharon’s hand on his shoulder, but he could not move. Winter was looking at him, those huge brown eyes, questioning. But Steve could not respond. He was in freefall now, pictures of horses flitting past him, an iron brand in his father’s hands, edges glowing orange. Pressing the Double-R to the cheek of every horse he’d owned.

The empty barn, Crossbones, the horses, the horses.

Viking, Gandalf, Bailey, River, Dorrin…

Winter seemed to decide that Steve at least was not threatening, and stepped forward again to nudge his chest, a little apology.

Bay, Quarter horse cross, mane on the left side, _brand on the left cheek…_

“But that’s impossible.”

“What is?” Sharon asked. He must have spoken aloud.

_But the brand…_

The brand.

Of course, there was one way to know for sure. He took a slow breath, trying to calm the tightness in his chest and the way his heartbeat seemed really loud in his ears. Gently he pressed Winter’s nose to the side with his left hand, leaning over to look at the horse’s right cheek.

The cheek the Double R brand was normally put on.

Funny how easy it was to see it when you were looking for it.

He almost thought he could smell the burning horsehair, hear his father’s exclamation, too late.

He could not speak, could barely breathe, because no– He– It– _You– I–_ Abruptly, he stepped back, hands dropping to his sides.

“Steve!” Sharon sounded worried now, but it was Winter’s soft nicker that caught him, brought him back to the present, his feet on solid ground again.

Something was building in his chest, something like hope wanting to choke him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.

He looked up into Winter(?)’s eyes, tried to speak, but could make no sound. He was afraid to say it, afraid, because he was supposed to be dead and gone, stolen away forever, not… not…

With a little gasp he turned, and strode away across the yard, moving fast, almost running. When he stopped halfway to the house, he pursed his lips, made no sound, wet them, tried again.

_Bob-bob-white. Bob-bob-white. Bob-bob-white._

Three times he whistled, before the trembling in his lips was too much. Because at the first call, he could hear hooves on the gravel. No hesitation in the quick beat of a jog, slowing to a couple walking steps, before warm air brushed the back of Steve’s neck, and a soft nose nudged between his shoulder blades.

Still without speaking, or looking behind him, Steve walked toward the machine shed, before curving his path back in the direction of the barn. The horse shadowed his every move.

Steve halted by the barn door, aware of Sam’s face twisted in confusion, Sharon with her hands over her mouth. Because she knew it too.

He turned, stood face-to-face with his horse. Warm grassy-sweet breath covered his face, and he sucked it in, blew softly back. Once more he stared into the expressive eyes, no more fear, no more cry for help, no more lostness. Only love and devotion and recognition and the alert hope of _home._

“You knew.”

His vision blurred.

“You knew. You knew me. That’s why you came with me.” The words came easy now, spilling from his full heart. “Buck. _You knew.”_

 ~~Winter~~ Buck nickered, and snorted in Steve’s face.

“ _Buck…”_

His arms were around Buck’s neck, and he was sobbing into his horse’s mane, fragmented attempts at Buck’s name getting out around the tears. Even in the flood of emotion, he was aware of Buck twisting his head around to touch his shoulder, pulling him into the loop of his neck, hugging Steve in the way only a horse could.

The way only Buck ever had.

It made absolutely no sense, yet it made perfect sense at the same time. As the years had passed, Steve had let the hope and the hurt fade, letting go of Buck the way he’d been forced to let go of his father. He had let Buck die.

But the moment the possibility had entered, the moment he saw the second upside-down brand that confirmed it, it was like power-washing a window that had been covered in dirt. Everything was clear. His colour, his confirmation, his acceptance of Steve, his bond with Valkyrie, his love of Nick’s singing, the way he understood things Steve asked him, the way he fit into the ranch as a puzzle piece shifted around until it fit perfectly.

Not to mention Crossbones’ comments on the mountain, exploding into laughter when Steve had called him Winter. Crossbones had known, had remembered where the horse he had trained to be a killer had come from. But he hadn’t counted on that horse finding his way home again.

“I’m sorry, Winter,” Steve wept. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

But right now, the guilt couldn’t stick. It could only be washed away, by the greatest truth of the now. This was Buck. Steve’s horse Buck. The one he had met hours after he’d been born, the one he’d played with, the one he’d been given with his name on the papers, and the trust in Buck’s eyes. The one he’d done join-up with, and ridden bareback for the first time, and taught all kinds of special whistle signals like a dog. The horse he’d ridden every single day for three years straight, except for two days in two different years when he’d been sick in bed.

The horse he had never truly stopped looking for.

“Buck. Bucky. _Buck.”_

Warm breath gusted across the back of Steve’s neck, and he felt the nicker rumble through Win– no _Buck’s_ chest. _Hey, it’s okay,_ he seemed to say. _It’s okay. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere._

“I ain’t letting go ever again,” Steve whispered hoarsely. “I promise, Buck. I promise. We’re sticking together till the end of the line.”

** 

When the crying finally slowed, he stood quietly for a while longer, hanging on to Buck, getting his breath back. He loosened his grip long enough to rub one hand over his face, pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt to wipe his nose. A few more tears slipped down his cheeks, and he tilted his head back, closed his eyes in the warm radiance of the June sunshine.

Sharon, who had been crying into her hands, now came forward to hug and kiss both of them. “Oh my gosh, Steve!” She was suddenly laughing, giddy. “I can’t believe it’s him. It’s really him!”

“So, how do you know for sure it’s him?” Sam asked, still looking a little bemused, though he’d definitely caught the gist of what was going on.

“The brands.” Steve blinked, sniffed, breathed deep. Draped his left arm over Winter’s neck. “I insisted on branding Buck myself, and we always put it on the right cheek. But I put it on upside-down, before Dad could correct me. So he has two, one upside-down, and the other on right.”

“So how come we never noticed them before?”

“Winter coat,” Sharon shrugged. “Then it’s easy to still miss old brands, unless you’re looking for them, even under a summer coat. Another reason freeze-brands are so popular. You can’t miss them.”

“I still should have recognized him.”

“Seriously!?” Sam shook his head, frowning at Steve now. “He looked nothing like those pics I’ve seen of him. He has a zillion scars, he hated people, he was dirty and wild, and older than the horse you remembered. So that is not a viable guilt trip.”

“But if I’d only known sooner…”

“You’d… what?” It was Sharon’s turn to disapprove. “Take better care of him? Love him more? Be kinder to him? That would be impossible.”

Steve couldn’t help a little laugh, the affection he felt for his horse spilling out of his chest, swamping him. “I don’t know about that.”

“All he knows is that you saved him. You found him, you brought him home. You proved yourself to him a thousand times over. Whether you knew it or not. _He_ knew it.” Sharon looped her arms around Steve’s waist, squeezed him. “You brought him home, Steve. You did it. You really did meet him halfway.”

Steve thought of Winter in the aisle at the auction, covered in dirt and scars and the terrified anger of an animal that refuses to die. He remembered the uncertainty, the way he had lashed out, before Steve’s voice started to make its impact. He had asked Winter to trust him that day, begged the horse to let Steve take him home.

He smiled down at Sharon’s beautiful, flushed, teary-eyed face, before turning back to his horse.

“And all this time I was calling you Winter, you were Buck.”

The horse’s ears pricked at the sound of both names.

“Are you gonna call him Buck now?” Sam asked, scratching his head. “It’ll take some getting used to.”

Steve laughed. “Don’t worry about it. He can go by both. But yeah, he’s Buck.” He hesitated, reached to stroke a hand over Buck’s side, the scars still so clearly on display. “Maybe not the same Buck who went out. But that’s okay. I’m not the same Steve who’s taking him back.”

Sam smiled, and there was suddenly a choke in his voice. “All that matters is that he’s home.”

Sharon suddenly let out a whoop, clapping her hands over her mouth to muffle it, but still making Buck shy. She bent to scoop up a startled Tessa, and danced in a circle with an armful of dog. “He’s home! He’s home! He’s home!” she shouted.

Then Tess was back on all fours and Sharon was bolting for the house. “Aunt Winnie! Aunt Winnie! Nick! Everybody! Anybody!”

Buck calmed at Steve’s touch, but he watched the girl go with a weather eye. Steve’s cheeks were beginning to hurt from the smiling, but he could not stop as he stood with a hand on Winter’s firm, flesh and bone shoulder, and listened to the screen door slam, Aunt Winnie asking questions, and Sharon’s shouts ringing around the yard.

“He’s home! That’s what’s happened! _Buck’s home!”_

**

The June nights were plenty warm enough to sleep out in, and mosquitoes were nowhere to be seen. Steve pulled the comforter up to his chest, and rolled over onto his back, staring up into the stars, so thickly scattered they made him blink. Buck grazed just out of arm’s reach, the rhythmic tearing and grinding of his teeth a soothing sound.

Steve was exhausted, but in the best possible way.

The news of Buck’s return had swept off the ranch and into town like a wildfire, with people phoning or stopping by all evening to rejoice with them. With Steve really.

Several patrol cars had come by, Sergeant Hill going so far as to give Steve a hug. Harrison and Ginny had ridden over with all their ranch hands, and stayed for supper, turning it into a giant party.

Sometimes it was strange, thinking of ‘Winter’, and looking over at his horse, only to remember that he wasn’t Winter. Well, he sort-of would always be Winter, Steve guessed. But then he would say ‘Buck’ and it felt like no time had passed.

Steve’s arm ached a little, probably from all the hugging he’d been doing, funny as it might sound. Tessa yipped in her sleep, already conked out on a corner of the horse blanket that served as their groundsheet near his feet. She was tuckered out from all the company too.

Steve had decided to forego being the ever-prepared cowboy for once, and was wearing his pyjamas and bare feet. Like being a kid again, when he’d slept out with Buck the summer he’d been 13. The year before everything went wrong. But he did have his hat beside his pillow, because he was his father’s son.

“You know,” he murmured to the world at large, though mostly in the direction of Heaven. “I think this is the best day of my life.”

Just that morning he’d been at the cemetery visiting his dad’s grave, and now–

His breath caught, as his sleepy brain connected the dots, and then he stared up the stars again, though they blurred now.

“Seriously, God?” he murmured. “You did _that?”_

Because the day his dad died, was the same day the horses were stolen. The day Buck was stolen. Seven years ago that day, Buck had been snatched away from him. And today, of all days, was the day he returned. Or at least, the day Steve finally recognized him, for who he really was.

“That’s what mom would call ‘Beauty for ashes’. ‘Beauty for ashes’.”

And then Steve had to laugh. Because wasn’t that just typical of God, writing this story like that? He was, after all, the original author of parallels and endings that came back to where they had started. That was why such things could feel so _right._

He would have to point that out to the others in the morning.

Sharon had ridden off with her parents and the cowboys, the strains of a chorus of ‘Westering Home’ drifting back down the road after them. Sam had saddled up Falcon then as well, but waited till they were gone, before he hugged Steve goodbye. He hadn’t really said anything, but Steve thought he understood the flickers of pain in his friend’s eyes.

“It’ll be even better than this the day you see him again,” he’d muttered in Sam’s ear.

Sam’s only reply had been a tightening of his arms across Steve’s back.

Steve sat up. “Hey, Buck?”

Buck lifted his head, and came over, still chewing. He blew grassy breath across Steve’s face. Steve reached to rub his hand along the upper part of Buck’s neck. “Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, fella.”

Finished his mouthful, Buck stepped closer to bury his head in Steve’s arms, forehead tucked against the man’s shoulder. Steve rested his cheek on Buck’s forelock, breathed in the smell of horse.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Steve slept under the watchful stars, Buck on guard over him. The horse twitched his ears to catch the distant howling of wolves, the whistle of a night bird, Steve’s deep even breathing. A soft westerly breeze came dancing along to toss Buck’s mane, and he lifted his head, turned into it to find the faint smell of the sea, mixed in with fresh cut hay, and cattle.

Comfortable, familiar.

Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted:  
> 'Hard Days' by Brantley Gilbert
> 
> Epilogue to follow!


	24. Sunrise

Horse hooves flashed through dark, dew-soaked grass, catching the light in the pale morning sky. Far off to the west, the moon was sinking into the Pacific, and the colour of the tamaracks was muted in the shadow of the mountains.

Steve sat light and easy on Buck’s smooth back, long legs wrapped around his warm barrel, hands buried in the long black mane, as he leaned forward. Fall was back, the air crisp and cool at this hour.

“Let ‘er buck, boy!” he hollered into the wind they were making.

He leaned forward as they left the path, taking an even steeper climb up the ridge than he had dared do with Valkyrie. He was riding ‘naked’ as his dad had called it, sans saddle or bridle or even halter. Buck’s breath made quick puffs of mist, his muscles bunching and stretching under Steve’s knees.

They were all one lean, live thing, charging fearlessly up the steep slope, dodging the rocky bits, hooves digging sharp into the earth, Steve never losing his balance.

One last heave, and they were over the top, a flock of birds starting out of the aspen grove to their right. Steve sat back, half-laughing in his own surprise, and stroked Buck’s neck until he too relaxed. The world went quiet again, except for their breathing, and Steve murmured to his horse, “Let’s walk for a bit, catch our breath. You can stop and graze in a few.”

They ambled down the path, until they were both breathing easy, and Steve leaned back, put his hands on Winter’ rump, the signal that the horse could relax, and do whatever he wanted. Buck went for the grass on the edge of what was here a near-cliff.

The hills rolled away below them, to the distant west, where Steve almost thought he could see a bit of the sea. He pulled off his hat, leaned even further back, till he was lying on Buck’s back, staring up at the sky. The stars were quickly fading out, the sun was coming. The rhythm of Buck’s ripping and chewing was soothing.

Dreamily he watched blue overtake the pearly grey, the sky right above the peaks to his left lightening the quickest. The air smelled of leaves and earth and rock and dew and warm horse.

Sharon had stirred when he slipped out of bed early, but a soft kiss and a whisper had been enough to settle her.

It was up here on this very ridge that he’d known for sure, _for sure_ that he would be marrying that girl. They’d had a weird sort-of-not-really fight on the last day of school, and decided they should… loosen things between them a little for that summer. She had gone to work at a horse camp for kids, and he’d buckled down to the ranch.

And then had come the cancer diagnosis, and Steve and Sarah had gotten back from three straight days of tests in Spokane, on the same day Sharon came home. She came straight over to the Double-R, and Steve had ended up yelling at her, something he hadn’t done since they were little kids. So he’d escaped with one of the horses to the mountains. Sharon had eventually followed him, found him, held him as he broke down on her shoulder. They’d sat up here, and cried together, and before he could even apologize, she was telling him, “I’m here, Steve. I’m right here. I’m sticking by you, I promise.”

Sharon wasn’t a girl who said _I promise_ much, and he’d known she meant it then. And he’d looked at the girl with tears all over her face, but he’d really _seen_ her then, her strength, her steadiness, her love. He’d known then that he would need her with him for the rest of his life.

Steve swayed easily with Buck’s walk as he moved to another patch of grass.

And now the deal was sealed, thank God.

It had been a beautiful wedding; the dress was stunning, the ceremony had no noticeable hiccups, and the ride back to the ranch (sadly without Buck, but Val had done her duties with grace) had been made even more memorable by the surprise of almost everyone in the wedding party showing up on horses too.

The ‘young folks’ as Nick always called them, had settled in as man and woman of the Double-R Ranch. It had been heavenly, but sometimes with only the two of them, the house had felt a little too quiet. Sam had fixed that by moving in first week of September, and other than the odd argument about food or TV channels, things had been good.

Life was good.

Not perfect. Steve sat up with a slow sigh, absently reaching to scratch Buck’s withers. There was a bunch of fencing that would need to be replaced in the spring, posts and all, the tic the tractor engine had developed, and repairs to the house roof, which needed to be done before the snow came.

It was a ranch, that was the way of it, he knew. You owned things, that meant maintaining them.

But it was still part of the good. It meant the ranch was working just as hard as they did, it meant they were alive. He took a deep breath, stared down the hills to the nest of barns and house. _His_ land, _his_ house… no, wait. _Theirs._ His, hers, God’s. Always God’s country.

He took another look at the blue morning sky.

“We’ll do our best,” he said aloud. “That we can promise.”

He liked to think they were proud of him. Of both of them.

Buck lifted his head, pricked his ears, looked around at his rider. Above their heads the peaks were covered in sunlight. Morning had definitely arrived.

Down below, faint lights flicked on in house windows, but the ranch yard light still shone bright, a star in the shadows.

A year it was now, just over, since he and Val had stood up here, hours before he’d hauled off to the fateful auction in B.C. A year. It hadn’t been a bad one. Not a bad one at all.

Steve smiled, leaned forward to hug Buck’s neck. “Okay, Buck. They’ll be looking for us, and we’ve got a busy day. Let’s go home.”

Buck wheeled, obedient to the slight pressure of Steve’s legs. They would take the trail this time. Buck surged into a rocking canter, Steve waving his hat once toward the peaks before he shoved it back onto his head, and leaned forward. They had time for one more gallop before cooling off.

“Let ‘er buck!” he whooped.

And then they were drinking the wind, racing the sunlight, flying on the wings of mountain air, down the trail toward home.

_Lights will guide you home_

_And ignite your bones_

_And I will try to fix you_

_-‘Fix You’ by Coldplay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that really is the end.  
> Thank you SergeantToMyCaptain for waiting (mostly) patiently, through the dry spells, and loving me always. Hope I did you proud.  
> And thank You, God for helping me all the way to the end. Without You I would be wandering the waysides, a raving lunatic. 
> 
> Hope everyone enjoyed it! And hopefully I'll see you in the next project. Cheerio! :)))))))


End file.
